By the next morning, “no intention” had already lost the battle.

The Sterling estate — a sprawling ancestral manor on the edge of Alustria — was rarely visited by anyone who wasn’t wearing formal attire or bearing official documents. Which made the sudden arrival of a breathless, rosy-cheeked little girl all the more surprising.

She came trotting up the front steps, accompanied by one of the castle maids who looked both apologetic and out of breath.

“Your Grace,” the maid began quickly, dipping into a curtsy. “It’s little Miss Rosetta from the neighboring Hawthorne estate. Her mother wished to know if Lady Vivian’s carriage has arrived. She heard they were expected before noon.”

Alistair’s brows rose slightly. “And Miss Rosetta decided to deliver the inquiry personally.”

Rosetta, who couldn’t have been more than eight, clasped her hands behind her back and gave him a bright, eager smile. “Mama says Lady Vivian is coming with Henry! He’s coming, isn’t he? I just wanted to know if he’s here yet.”

The sheer earnestness in her voice left no room for irritation. The Hawthornes had been old family friends of the Sterlings

for generations — kind, steady people whose company had softened many lonely winters for his sister when she still lived nearby.

“The carriage was expected half an hour ago,” he replied evenly, folding his hands atop the desk. “There may have been a delay on the road.”

Rosetta’s shoulders fell, then immediately lifted again as she beamed. “Then I’ll come back in an hour!”

And she did.

At noon. At one. At two. Each visit announced by the same quick little knock and the same breathless, “Are they here yet?”

By her fourth appearance, Alistair sat immobile behind his desk, listening to the unmistakable sound of small feet scurrying up the corridor. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him. This was a variable his meticulously ordered life had not accounted for.

When the knock came, he didn’t bother looking up. “Enter.”

Rosetta burst in, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Are they here yet?”

Amora, watching from the curtain rod, was barely containing her glee. But it wasn't just the girl's persistence that delighted her. As Rosetta stood there, practically vibrating with hope, Amora's fairy sight caught the most delightful, delicate thread—a shimmering, pale ribbon of pure, childish adoration that stretched from Rosetta's heart out the window and down the road, waiting. It was the sweetest, most innocent kind of love. A soft, knowing smile touched Amora’s lips. She hugged her knees to her chest, savoring the secret.

Alistair drew a slow, measured breath, the one he usually reserved for particularly obtuse trade ministers. His patience, a deep and normally unassailable well, was scraping the bottom. He opened his mouth, a crisp dismissal ready on his tongue. But when he glanced back, the little girl’s hopeful eyes were fixed on him with such open, guileless excitement that something — something small and reluctant — softened in his expression. The dismissal died before it was born.

“Tell your mother,” he said at last, “that the Harlands are on their way. Likely slowed by weather.”

Rosetta’s grin widened. She bobbed a curtsy so quick it was nearly a hop. “Yes, Your Grace!”

She darted out of the room, her laughter echoing down the hall.

The maid, still standing in the doorway and looking faintly harassed, curtsied again. “Apologies, Your Grace. Miss Rosetta was quite determined.”

“I can see that,” he said dryly.

From the curtain, Amora’s voice chimed with wicked delight. “Oh, I like her! She’s fearless! You’ve finally met someone more relentless than me!”

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose with quiet dignity. “Heaven help me,” he murmured, “they multiply.”

Amora fluttered down from the curtain, her wings leaving a faint shimmer in the air. “Oh, that was lovely,” she sighed. “Children bring such warmth into a house.”

Alistair gave her a long, tired look, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest ghost of amusement. “So do fires,” he murmured, “until they burn down the furniture.”

---

Later that afternoon, long after Rosetta’s fourth hopeful visit, the awaited carriage finally clattered into the courtyard. The grey skies that had threatened rain all day had finally delivered, and the horses steamed slightly in the damp, cool air.

Alistair stood at his study window, a silent spectator to the impending invasion of his peace. Amora, of course, was plastered to the glass beside his head, her tiny hands splayed against the pane.

“They’re here!They’re here! Oh, look at the horses! They look so tired. Do you think they had a good journey? I hope the baby didn’t cry too much, it’s so unsettling for them—”

“Amora.”

“Right. Observing. Not commenting.”

The carriage door swung open before the footman could reach it, and a whirlwind of lavender silk and glossy black hair tumbled out. Vivian did not descend; she erupted, her laughter ringing against the manor’s stone walls like bells.

“Alistair! You dreadful hermit, come down here and let me look at you!”

Alistair’s sigh was a testament to lifetimes of sisterly endurance. He turned from the window as the front door below was thrown open, the sound of her vibrant voice already filling the hall.

By the time he descended the grand staircase, the entrance

was a scene of controlled pandemonium. Vivian was directing footmen with effortless authority while simultaneously shrugging off her traveling cloak. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind, weathered face—Richard—stood holding a wriggling bundle of blankets carefully against his chest.

And then there was the boy.

Henry stood stiffly by the door, his little trunk at his feet. He was dressed in a perfect, miniature version of a gentleman’s traveling clothes, his back ramrod straight, his expression a careful mask of solemnity. He looked, Alistair thought, like a poor copy of a formal portrait.

“Alistair!” Vivian swept forward, ignoring his personal space entirely and pulling him into a hug that smelled of lavender and sunshine. He endured it, patting her back twice in a gesture of vague appeasement.

“Vivian. You are… as effusive as ever.”

She released him, holding him at arm's length, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “And you are as starched as ever. It’s good to see you.”

Richard approached, the swaddled baby secure in his arms. “Alistair,” he said, his voice a warm rumble. “This is Lily.”

The baby, Lily, made a soft cooing sound, her eyes a clear, striking grey of the Sterlings.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Alistair's lips as

he looked from the baby to Richard. "It seems the Sterling line has asserted itself quite decisively," he remarked, his tone laced with a quiet, triumphant amusement.

Richard laughed, a rich, hearty sound. "And here I was, hoping that my charming smile that she got will balance it out. I suppose I'll have to try harder with the next one."

Vivian swatted his arm playfully, a blush on her cheeks. "Richard!"

It was then that Henry stepped forward. He executed a perfect, if small, bow. “Hello, Uncle. Thank you for having us in your home.”

Alistair looked down at the boy. The imitation was so precise, so devoid of a child’s natural exuberance, that it was almost unsettling. “Henry,” he acknowledged with a nod.

From his waistcoat pocket, a tiny, muffled squeak emerged. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, he looks like a sad little clerk!”

Alistair did not react.

Vivian’s eyes swept over the hall. “Well,” she said, her voice regaining its practical warmth. “It seems we've brought the storm inside with us. Shall we get out of this draughty hall?”

Before Alistair could form a reply, a familiar, quick patter of feet sounded at the front door. Rosetta stood there, clutching the doorframe, her chest heaving from her run.

“Henry!” she burst out, her voice full of unbridled joy. “You’re really here!”

All eyes turned to the boy. Henry’s cheeks flushed. He glanced at his uncle, then back at the eager girl. His small shoulders squared, and the mask of formality slammed back into place.

“Hello, Rosetta,” he said, his voice deliberately even. “I trust you are well.”

Rosetta’s brilliant smile faltered for a breath—but only for a breath. She gathered herself with quiet determination, clasping her hands behind her back once more. “I’m very well,” she said politely. “I made a new fort in the old oak. I thought… maybe we could—”

“I have outgrown forts,” Henry interrupted, echoing his uncle’s tone with heartbreaking precision. “I must attend to my studies now. Good day.”

There was a pause. For a moment, Rosetta’s small shoulders dipped—but then she straightened them again. Her voice came out soft but steady.

“Oh. Of course. You must be tired from the journey, too.” She offered a small, graceful curtsy that would have made any governess proud. “Rest well then, Henry. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

And with that, she turned and hurried back toward the door—not running, but walking with the sort of dignity only a deeply wounded child could manage.

Vivian let out a frustrated sigh. “Henry Richard Harland, that was unpardonably rude!”

But the boy was already gone.

Richard shook his head, gently bouncing the baby in his arms. “He’s been like this the whole journey. Determined to be a little lord.”

Alistair stood silently, observing the wreckage. He felt a strange pang, one he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t the girl’s hurt feelings that struck him, but the boy’s profound misunderstanding. This stiff, cold performance was what the child thought he was? It was a flawed impression, a copy that missed the entire point.

From his pocket, another whisper, this one grim. “Oh, that won’t do at all.”

Vivian pressed her fingers to her temples. "That boy," she murmured. "He wasn't like this at home. It's as if the very air of this place has turned him into a little statue."

Richard shifted the now-whimpering Lily in his arms, his usual joviality replaced by a father's consternation. "He's been talking of nothing but 'being like his uncle' for the whole journey. I didn't realize he meant the marble bust version." He offered Alistair a small, apologetic shrug. "No offense, old man."

The footmen, who had been frozen in place, snapped back into

action, gathering trunks. The familiar rhythms of the household began to reassert themselves, albeit now layered with the new, discordant notes of family drama.

Alistair finally turned from the stairs. "Tea," he stated, the word a command that set the final piece of the arrival ritual in motion. "In the blue drawing room." His tone was as even as ever, but the quiet of his manor was not just broken; it had been fundamentally altered.