The blue drawing room was, like every other room Alistair frequented, a monument to order and quiet taste. It did not take well to pandemonium, but it was putting up a valiant effort. The Harlands had brought their own weather system with them—a warm, bustling chaos that made the very air feel thicker.

Vivian had commandeered the largest sofa, settling into it with the air of someone reclaiming a throne. Richard stood by the mantelpiece, gently bouncing a wide-awake Lily in his arms. The baby was gnawing thoughtfully on her own fist, her clear Sterling-grey eyes taking in the unfamiliar room with a solemn, damp-cheeked curiosity.

Henry sat on a stiff-backed chair, his feet not quite reaching the floor, doing a remarkable impression of a marble bust in miniature. He watched his uncle with an intensity that was both flattering and deeply unnerving.

Amora, for her part, was in her element. Having flitted from the tassel of a curtain to the rim of a porcelain vase, she now had a perfect vantage point from the top shelf of a bookcase, peering down at the scene like a tiny, pink-haired gargoyle. Alistair could feel the weight of her silent, rapt attention.

Tea was poured. The first delicate clinks of porcelain were a familiar, soothing rhythm.

"Well," Vivian began, her voice a masterful blend of affection and needle-sharp insight. "You're looking remarkably un-assassinated, brother. The estate is still standing. It's a true testament to your charming personality that no one has tried to burn it down around you yet." She took a sip of her tea, her grey eyes glinting over the rim. "A minor miracle, given the number of people who simply adore you."

Richard let out a warm, rumbling chuckle from his post by the mantel, gently adjusting a now-squirming Lily in his arms. "Now, Viv, that's not entirely fair. I'm sure the trade ministers only occasionally plot his demise over tariff disputes."

"One can only hope their ambition is as limited as their intellect," Alistair replied, his tone dry as dust. "It would be a rather pathetic epitaph: 'Felled by a poorly drafted import quota.'"

Vivian's laugh was a bright, clear sound. "There's the Alistair we know and love." She leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting to one of keen curiosity. "Speaking of social perils... I heard through the gossips' grapevine that His Majesty held a Midsummer Ball. Please don't tell me you found some dreadfully logical excuse to hide in your study instead. I swear, Alistair, if you didn't go—"

"I attended," Alistair interjected, his voice flat.

Vivian's cup halted halfway to her lips. She blinked. Richard, by the mantel, let out a low chuckle of pure surprise.

"You... attended?" Vivian repeated, as if he'd just confessed to taking up juggling. "Voluntarily?"

"One typically does not attend such events under duress," Alistair replied, taking a slow sip of his tea. "Though I assure you, my presence did not single-handedly elevate the evening into the social event of the season. I believe the kingdom's structural integrity remains intact, despite my shocking decision to make an appearance."

Richard, who had settled onto the large sofa beside his wife, let out a full-bellied laugh. "Well, I'll be. The world truly is full of wonders. Did you at least dance, you old rogue? Or did you just stand against a wall, silently judging the structural integrity of the ballroom's archways?"

"Richard!" Vivian swatted playfully at his arm, but her eyes were fixed on Alistair, wide with disbelief and dawning, almost maternal, hope. "He's right, though. Don't leave us in suspense. Did you... speak to anyone? A lady, perhaps?"

From the bookshelf, there was a faint, tell-tale shimmer, as if a tiny set of wings had given an involuntary, triumphant flutter. Alistair did not glance up.

"My interactions were... sufficient to meet the basic requirements of attendance," he said, the picture of bland evasion. "The archways, for the record, were structurally sound, if overly ornate."

Vivian set her cup down with a sharp click. "Alistair Sterling, you are the most infuriating man in seven kingdoms! You cannot just drop a revelation like that and then retreat behind a wall of paperwork-speak! You never go to balls. Something must have prompted this. Or... or someone?"

Her gaze was piercing, searching his face for any crack in his composure. The silence in the room stretched, thick with unasked questions.

It was broken by a soft, happy gurgle.

Lily, distracted by the shimmer of a sunbeam on a silver teapot, waved a tiny fist and cooed again, a bubble forming on her lips.

Vivian’s stern expression melted into a smile. "See? Even Lily is passing judgment on your evasiveness. You can't escape this interrogation, brother. The jury demands an answer."

Alistair found himself glancing at the blissfully unaware baby. "The jury," he noted dryly, "appears to be primarily interested in salivary exploration and shiny objects. A notoriously easily distracted panel."

"Don't you try to change the subject," Vivian pressed, though her lips twitched. "Well? Out with it. Did you at least dance?"

"I did not."

"Speak to anyone of consequence?" Richard asked, leaning forward with a grin.

"I discussed trade routes with Lord Fincastle and the state of the northern roads with the Minister of Infrastructure. It was a perfectly adequate conversation."

A faint, almost imperceptible hint of amusement touched Alistair's lips as the memory surfaced—not of the ministers, but of the furious, muffled thumping against his chest and the tiny, scandalized whisper of "You're wasting prime ballroom hours!" that had accompanied every word.

Vivian threw her hands up in exasperation. "Trade routes! You went to a royal ball to talk about gravel? I take it all back. You're hopeless."

"Now, now, Viv," Richard said, his tone warm and reasonable. "A stable northern road is the backbone of the kingdom's economy. It's a far more productive topic than who wore which feather, I'm sure."

"Spoken like a man who has never appreciated the strategic importance of a well-placed feather," Vivian retorted, but her smile took the sting out of it. She leaned over, gently extracting Lily from Richard's arms and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'm taking our daughter upstairs before this talk of potholes and tariffs affects her development. Try not to let Henry absorb all the fun, will you?"

With a final, wry glance that lingered on her son, she swept from the room.

The moment the door closed, Richard's posture relaxed. He turned to Alistair with a good-natured sigh. "Right then. So, these northern roads... Henry, your uncle is being modest. The tax implications alone are fascinating. What's your take on tolls versus a direct crown subsidy?"

What followed was a surprisingly civil, if dry, discussion. Richard, with his easy humor, deftly navigated the topic, occasionally tossing a simple question Henry’s way. The boy, while still stiff, seemed to relax a fraction in his father’s presence, offering nervous, one-word answers.

From her perch above, Amora lasted exactly three minutes before she began to wilt. Her wings drooped, her tiny chin resting on her hands as she stared in disbelief at the trio below.

Trade routes. Taxes. Gravel.

The very words made her soul shrivel.

She leaned sideways, whispering to the empty air, “Oh yes, nothing stirs the heart like the fiscal logistics of road maintenance.”

Alistair gestured to a map. Richard nodded. Henry looked thoughtful.

Amora’s expression flattened.

“If I hear the word infrastructure one more time,” she muttered, “I swear I’ll throw myself off this shelf and let the inkwell take me.”

No one heard her, of course. Humans rarely did.

Amora huffed, clutching a stray ribbon from the curtain, whispered darkly to herself, “Fate sent me to weave threads of love, not… road maintenance. If this is what destiny looks like, I’m changing professions.”

While Alistair pointed to a region on the map, and Richard leaned in to see, Amora dropped from the shelf. A mere flicker of light in the periphery, a soft rustle of wings quieter than a sigh, and she was gone—slipping out the door and leaving the men to their gravel in blessed, fairy-less discussion.

By the time the dinner gong sounded, they had thoroughly dissected the economic merits of gravel quality. Henry looked thoughtful, if overwhelmed, and Alistair found the topic had, against all odds, been marginally less tedious than usual.

Dinner passed with a quiet, if not entirely comfortable, civility. Henry maintained his formal silence, and Vivian’s attempts at light conversation were met with polite, minimal replies from her brother and son. Afterward, Richard pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple. "I'll be back before you know it," he murmured, before clapping Alistair on the shoulder. "Look after them for me, will you?"

The next morning, over breakfast, Vivian stifled a yawn. "I don't know what you did, Alistair, but you've charmed the very angle. I woke last night to find Lily not crying, but cooing and giggling in her crib, batting at the air as if someone were playing with her." She smiled, a tired but radiant expression. "She's just so sweet, even the angels themselves can't resist her."

Alistair’s brows lifted slightly. “Angels?” he repeated, tone dry but not unkind.

Vivian chuckled. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know you think me fanciful, but there was something in that room. I could almost feel it. Warm, gentle… like sunlight after rain.”

He regarded her quietly for a moment, then set his cup down with precise care. “It seems even divine beings are not immune to a certain Sterling charm,” he said at last, his voice smooth, perfectly composed—though something in his eyes flickered, just briefly.

Vivian laughed, shaking her head. “You haven’t changed at all. Always pretending not to believe in anything you can’t measure.”

____

Retreating to the quiet of his study felt like stepping back into his own skin. The brief, strange warmth of the morning's conversation faded, replaced by the familiar, cool solace of paper and silence. Or, it should have been silence.

He found Henry already there, perched rigidly in a stiff chair. The boy was dwarfed by a massive legal tome—Principles of Alestrian Land Law & Succession—his small brow furrowed in a battle of concentration against the dense, impenetrable text. He looked, Alistair thought, like a scribe being slowly crushed by his own parchment.

Before Alistair could formulate a question, a soft knock preceded the entrance of a maid. She curtsied quickly, her eyes darting to the boy.

"Master Henry," she said, her voice gentle. "Miss Rosetta is at the gate again. She's brought her sketchbook this time, and asks if you'd like to see the new fort."

Henry’s shoulders snapped back, his spine becoming a rod of iron. He drew a sharp breath, and Alistair could see the practiced, cold dismissal already hardening his young features. "Tell her I am—"

"Wait outside, please, and don't tell here anything yet." Alistair interrupted, his voice calm but slicing through the boy's sentence with undeniable finality.

The maid, looking relieved, curtsied again and hurried out, closing the door behind her.

The study was utterly still. Henry sat frozen, the book forgotten in his lap, his wide, uncertain eyes fixed on his uncle.

Alistair let the silence stretch for a long moment, his gaze steady on his nephew. "I wish to have a word with you, Henry."

Somewhere in the quiet, a clock ticked. Once. Twice.

Each sound cut clean through the hush, marking the seconds between them — measured, deliberate, and waiting.