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

“Tell me,” Alistair began, his voice calm and measured. “What was your objective in dismissing Miss Rosetta so... definitively?”

Henry’s brow furrowed, unprepared for a question instead of a reprimand.

“I... I have outgrown forts, Uncle. I must attend to my studies. To... to become like you.”

“Like me,” Alistair repeated, the words neutral. “And what part of my conduct, precisely, dictates that one must ‘outgrow’ civility?”

The boy faltered. “It... it is not... you are always so...” He struggled for the word. “Composed.”

“Composed. I see.” Alistair leaned back slightly. “And do you believe my composure is a performance I put on for others? A series of rules I follow?”

Henry gave a small, hesitant nod.

“It is not.” Alistair’s voice was quiet but absolute. “This composure is a choice. A tool. It is not a cage.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Your performance today, however, was a cage. You were a prisoner inside it. I could see the bars from here.”

Henry’s eyes dropped to his lap, his cheeks flushing.

“Let me ask you another question,” Alistair said, his tone shifting from analytical to something quieter, more intent. “Setting aside what you believe is expected of you... what did you want to do when you heard Miss Rosetta was at the gate?”

The boy was silent for a long time, his small hands clenching on the book. “I wanted to see the fort,” he whispered, the confession dragged from him.

“Why?”

“Because...” Henry’s voice was thick, and he stubbornly refused to let a tear fall. “She... she draws the plans so well. They're clever. And... and we've always built them. Ever since she was little. Since she could first walk. I... I was there when she was born.”

The simple, profound statement hung in the quiet room. It was not just a playmate he was dismissing. It was a shared history. A person whose entire life he had been part of.

For Rosetta, Henry had simply always been — a constant. And he had tried to shatter that constancy to fit a role.

“So,” Alistair said, his voice softer now, the word no longer a clinical tool but a gentle acknowledgment. “In your effort to emulate what you perceive as strength, you denied yourself a connection of long standing, caused distress to a loyal ally of your earliest years, and for what? The appearance of maturity?”

He paused, the sharpness of reason giving way to something steadier, more human. “True strength, Henry, is not in the rejection of what is foundational, but in the courage to make your own choices — and to honor the bonds you’ve chosen. A man who is a slave to an image is weaker than one who knows his own mind, even if that mind occasionally wishes to honor a lifelong friendship by looking at a fort.”

He let the words hang for a heartbeat. “Do you understand the distinction?”

Henry looked up, the imitation gone. Just a boy again — earnest and alive. “I think… I do, Uncle.”

A pause — then a sudden, bright spark lit his face. “I think I’m going to go see the fort!” he blurted, already halfway to the door, his steps clumsy with eagerness.

And before Alistair could form a reply, the boy was gone — the door swinging open, quick footsteps vanishing down the corridor.

The quiet returned like a tide. The clock ticked once, twice — far too loud in the stillness.

Alistair remained seated for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway. Then, very deliberately, he leaned back in his chair, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered flatly, “I’ve lost my mind.”

The declaration hung in the still air a moment before he went on, almost as if defending himself in an invisible courtroom.

“I’ve given unsolicited emotional counsel. To a child. About friendship.”

He paused, grimacing faintly. “I quoted philosophy, and meant it.”

A dry sigh escaped him. “Next, I’ll be smiling at stray kittens and writing poetry about moral development.”

He stared at the clock, its ticking mercilessly steady. “Completely deranged,” he concluded, pinching the bridge of his nose with the weary dignity of a man who’d just diagnosed himself with humanity.

A beat of silence passed. Then his brows drew together. “No,” he murmured slowly, reasoning his way out of the impossible. “No, that wasn’t me. That was her.”

His gaze swept the corners of the room — the shelves, the window ledge, the empty patch of desk where she so often perched — each one glitter-free and suspiciously innocent.

“Of course it was,” he muttered, half to himself. “Whispering in my ear again, no doubt. Some absurd moral lesson about hearts and choices, wrapped in wings and pink nonsense.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, tugging at his cuffs as though to reassert logic itself.

“I should’ve known,” he went on, voice dry as paper. “The moment I began using empathy as a teaching tool, I should’ve realized I’d been tampered with.”

He stared out the window, every inch the serious Duke reclaiming his composure. “Unacceptable,” he said under his breath. “First, she disrupts my work. Then, she undermines my sanity. What’s next—spontaneous acts of kindness?”

Alistair straightened his coat, smoothing invisible creases as if dignity could be ironed back into him.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, “I refuse to be morally reprogrammed by a four-inch anarchist.”

Still, when he found himself striding down the corridor toward the nursery, he told himself it was purely logical. A check on the household. Nothing more.

Vivian looked up from the rocking chair, Lily gurgling happily in her arms.

“Alistair,” she said with that knowing smile only sisters possessed. “Come to see your favorite niece already? My, that’s fast—she must have you thoroughly wrapped around her tiny finger.”

He hesitated, every inch the man caught in an accusation that was technically true but profoundly misdirected.

“I merely wished to confirm that… your angels,” he said with careful neutrality, “have not made a reappearance.”

Vivian’s laughter was bright and delighted. “Oh, listen to him! Lily’s uncle pretending not to be smitten.”

She rose and crossed the room, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “You can admit it, Alistair. Even the mighty Duke Sterling isn’t immune to her charms.”

He gave her a long-suffering look, the sort that had been honed over years of sibling endurance. “If that sentiment ever leaves this room,” he said dryly, “I shall deny it on every conceivable level.”

Vivian grinned, unbothered. “Of course you will. That’s what makes it true.”

Alistair exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to Lily, who cooed and reached for the air as though trying to grasp something unseen. A faint shimmer, pink and elusive, danced just above her fingertips.

“Yes,” he murmured, lips tightening into something dangerously close to a smile. “Utterly… charming.”

Vivian beamed, taking his words as genuine affection. “See? I knew there was a heart in there somewhere.”

He inclined his head with impeccable politeness. “I’ll be sure to inform my physician.”

He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze drifting toward the crib. A faint dusting of pink shimmer clung to the edge of the blanket—a detail far too delicate for an ordinary draft of light. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Vivian,” he said smoothly, straightening his cuffs, “you’ve barely sat down all morning. Why don’t you go and rest for a while? Or better yet, check on Henry. I believe he’s in the garden with Miss Rosetta.”

She blinked, surprised. “The garden? Are you sure?”

“I’d wager a reasonable sum on it,” he replied, tone casual but assured. “He left my study in a state of great conviction not long ago. I’d be astonished if he didn’t make straight for her the moment he stepped outside.”

Vivian stared at him, eyes widening with a mixture of disbelief and hope. “Henry? Playing again?” Alistair gave a faint, deliberate shrug. “It seems even the most dedicated scholars occasionally abandon their tomes for simpler pursuits.”

“You… you spoke to him?”

“I may have offered a few remarks,” he admitted, with all the dignity of a man confessing to a minor crime. Vivian looked ready to cry—or faint—or both. “You what? Alistair, you talked to him about feelings?”

“About logic,” he corrected quickly. “Which occasionally intersects with feelings in regrettable ways.”

Her laughter bubbled out, bright and delighted. “Oh, this I must see! You’ve accomplished in a few minutes what I’ve been trying for weeks.” She gently laid Lily back in her cradle, the baby cooing contentedly, and was already moving toward the door. “I’m going to the garden this instant!”

Alistair nodded, stepping aside. “Enjoy your miracle.”

She paused at the threshold, glancing back with suspicion and a fond smile. “And what about you, hmm? Don’t tell me you’re staying here to—oh, I don’t know—play with the baby?”

“I assure you, I am perfectly capable of supervising an infant for a few minutes,” he said with utmost gravity.

“‘Supervising,’” she repeated, amused. “That’s what we’re calling affection now?”

“Call it what you like,” he said blandly. “But if you hurry, you might still catch Henry before he outgrows forts again.”

Vivian laughed, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. Don’t let her cry, Your Grace.”

“I’ll endeavor to meet your expectations.”

---

Vivian descended the staircase with a quiet quickness, her skirts whispering over the polished steps. The morning light followed her through the hall, brushing against the frames and flowers as if sharing her curiosity.

She crossed to the open terrace doors—and stopped short at the sight that greeted her in the garden below.

By the great oak, Henry was kneeling in the grass, sleeves rolled past his elbows, surrounded by an impressive clutter of sticks, stones, and scraps of ribbon. Rosetta stood beside him, hands on her hips, dictating instructions with the gravity of a general.

“That beam doesn’t go there,” she declared. “That’s the gate! You’ll ruin the symmetry!”

Henry made a helpless sound that might have been laughter. “Rosetta, you can’t have symmetry if one of your towers leans like it’s had too much cider!”

Vivian’s lips parted in surprise—and then curved into something soft and unsteady.

Just yesterday, he had been so withdrawn, his words clipped and careful, his posture too stiff for his age. But now… now he was smiling. Truly smiling.

Rosetta tossed a handful of petals at him, indignant, and he retaliated by pretending to steal her ribbon and running three paces before she lunged after him. The two of them collapsed into the grass, their laughter spilling across the garden like a forgotten song.

Vivian pressed a hand to her chest, the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding easing at last. It was such a simple thing—children laughing—but after the strained silences of the past few hours, it felt like sunlight after a long, gray morning.

She lingered at the edge of the terrace, unwilling to break the spell. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something glimmer between the branches—a faint, rose-gold shimmer that vanished as soon as she blinked.

A trick of the light, she told herself. And yet… it left her smiling.

“Thank you,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure to whom. Perhaps to her brother. Perhaps to God.  Perhaps to something else.

---

Back in the nursery, when the sound of Vivian’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the nursery settled into a soft, drowsy quiet. Only the curtains stirred, breathing gently with the breeze, and the cradle creaked in a lazy rhythm.

Alistair remained still for a long moment, ensuring his sister was well and truly gone. Then, with the deliberate air of a man performing an entirely reasonable act, he stepped closer to the cradle and carefully lifted Lily into his arms.

The baby blinked up at him, wide-eyed and content, one tiny hand curling around the edge of his cravat. A faint shimmer lingered over her blanket—soft as candle smoke, almost invisible. Anyone else might have missed it. Alistair did not.

He sighed. “I see how it is,” he murmured, voice edged with weary accusation. “Conspiring with infants now, are we? How very dignified for such a celestial being.”

He adjusted Lily slightly, speaking in the same dry tone one might reserve for an accomplice caught mid-crime.

“And where,” he asked gravely, “is that angel your mother believes was playing with you, hmm?”

Lily responded by catching his finger and laughing—a bright, bubbling sound that made his expression falter for the briefest second.

“I see,” he said quietly. “An accomplice, then. Learning to obstruct investigations already.”

She gurgled louder, and in her movement, a faint dust of pink shimmer caught the light—so subtle it might have been nothing at all.

Alistair’s eyes narrowed.

He took a slow breath, lowering his voice to that calm, cutting register that made even Parliament fall silent.

“Enough of that,” he murmured. “Show yourself. I know you’re here.”

A pause.

Then, a pink blur zipped from the top of the canopy, coming to an abrupt halt directly in front of his face. Amora hovered there, planting her tiny hands on her hips, her wings a furious blur.

“Oh, come now,” she said. “You say that like I’ve done something.”

He didn’t flinch, though Lily let out a delighted gurgle, her eyes locking onto the shimmering fairy now in her line of sight. “You always do something.”

She floated down lazily, perching on the edge of the cradle. “If ‘something’ means keeping the baby from crying all night, then yes, I suppose I’m guilty.”

He regarded her evenly. “That, and tampering with my judgment.”

Amora blinked. “Your what?”

“My judgment,” he said dryly. “You’ve been whispering nonsense about friendship and choices into my ear, haven’t you? Manipulating my words into... mentorship”

Her eyes widened. “What—no! I haven’t even seen you since yesterday! I’ve been here, minding my own business.” then she crossed her arms midair, wings flicking indignantly. “I mean it! I’ve been behaving. Voluntarily! Ask Lily—she’s been my witness all night!”

Lily laughed and flailed her tiny hands toward the fairy as if seconding the claim.

“See?” Amora said triumphantly, gesturing to the baby. “I have an alibi! The most trustworthy one in the house!”

Alistair gave her a long, assessing look, unimpressed. “An infant. How very reassuring.”

Amora huffed, tossing her curls. “Honestly, you make it sound like I’m scheming in your head for sport. I was forbidden from interfering, thank you very much.”

That caught him off guard. “Forbidden?”

“Yes!” she said, eyes widening as if she’d already said too much. “The—uh—other fairy said so. The one on their mission.” She gestured vaguely toward the garden. “Apparently I’m on thin ice as it is.”

Alistair’s expression sharpened slightly. “There’s another one?”

Amora froze midair, wings stuttering. “...Did I say that out loud?”