The silence in the nursery stretched, thin and brittle. Amora’s tiny hands flew back to her mouth, but it was far too late. The words hung in the air between them, a slip she hadn't meant to make. She hung motionless, the frantic beat of her wings the only sign of her panic. Alistair’s arms, cradling the baby, did not move, but his gaze was now a physical weight upon her.

“Another one,” he repeated, his voice flat. The words didn't carry shock, only the profound, bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had just discovered a leak in his roof only for a second, larger leak to open up beside it. His life was being systematically dismantled by pastel-colored entropy. "Do you simply... infest in pairs, or is there an entire flock I should be budgeting for?"

Amora’s shock melted into pure, unadulterated indignation. “We do not infest! We observe! And it’s just the one! Well, the one other one. She’s not even for you, you great, arrogant—” She cut herself off, zipping a furious circle around his head. “She’s assigned to Henry and Rosetta! It’s her mission, and she made it perfectly, obnoxiously clear that I am to stay out of it!”

“Of course they have a mission,” Alistair muttered. “Heaven forbid anything in my household happen by accident.”

Alistair’s eyes, which had been glazed with boredom, sharpened. A new, unpleasant possibility occurred to him. He looked directly at Amora, his gaze intent. “So the other one… the one other one… was she the one who interfered with my judgment? Who put that… sudden, inexplicable urge to speak with Henry in my head?” The thought that his own mind had been used as a puppet by an unseen entity was infinitely more irritating than Amora’s whining.

Amora looked momentarily stunned, then her face crumpled with a fresh wave of indignation. “So that’s why you were suddenly so wise! She didn’t put the words in your mouth, you arrogant—! She just… gave you a little nudge! A psychic shove in the right direction! She used you to fix her own assignment because you’re the only person that boy would listen to!” She zipped closer, jabbing a tiny finger in his direction. “Whatever came out of your mouth was purely you. Your thoughts, your mind, your… your startlingly good advice! She just made you open the door. You walked through it all by yourself.”

Alistair let out a slow, weary breath. The brief flare of alarm subsided, not into relief, but into a more profound, bone-deep exhaustion. He had not been in control. He had been a pawn in a game he didn't even know was being played, manipulated by a fairy he hadn't even seen. He deliberately turned his head away from this horrifying revelation and looked down at the baby. Lily, blissfully unaware of being the only female in the room not currently manipulating him, blinked her wide grey eyes up at him.

“So,” he said, his tone now carrying the weight of a man besieged on all sides, his attention firmly on the one simple, non-magical creature present, “you have been… professionally reprimanded. By a rival… decorator.”

“A Fate Creator!” Amora shrieked, her voice hitting a register that made him instinctively tighten his hold on Lily, as if to shield her from the decibels. “And it wasn’t a reprimand, it was a threat! My failure with you is well-known! They’re saying I’m to be demoted to polishing moonbeams for a century!”

“A tragic fate,” Alistair conceded. He used his thumb to gently wipe a spot of drool from Lily’s chin, finding the task infinitely more rewarding than this conversation. “I’m sure the moonbeams will be impeccably maintained.” He adjusted his grip, the solid, warm weight of the infant a grounding counterpoint to the airy hysteria. “And I assume this… colleague… felt the need to deliver this thrilling piece of office gossip personally?”

“She didn’t just deliver it, she performed it!” Amora landed on his shoulder, her tiny fists clutching the stiff wool of his coat. “She said, ‘Stay away from my threads, Amora.’ And then—and then she did the most cliché, most infuriating thing!”

She launched herself back into the air, a buzzing, glittering storm of wounded pride. She puffed out her chest, screwed her face into a stern mask, and then, with dramatic flair, pointed two tiny fingers at her own wide pink eyes.

“‘I’m watching you,’ she said!” Amora squeaked, her voice a pitch-perfect mimicry of condescending sternness. She then pointed the same fingers directly at Alistair’s nose. “Like some kind of low-budget theatre villain! The sheer lack of original menace! The nerve!”

Alistair stared at her, his expression utterly deadpan. He waited a full three seconds. Then, despite his best efforts, a low, quiet chuckle escaped him. It was a brief, husky sound of pure, amused disbelief at her theatrical display.

“Hey! Don’t you laugh at me!” Amora zipped in a furious circle, her glitter flaring. The sound, so unexpected, hit a nerve still raw from her humiliation. It wasn't that he was mocking her the way they did back home, but it felt like he was joining a chorus she could already hear. "I don't need it from you, too!"

The sound of his unexpected laugh, however, made Lily startle in his arms. Her little head turned towards the familiar rumble, and she let out a delighted, gurgling coo, her tiny hands waving as if she thought he was beginning a game just for her.

Instantly, Alistair’s focus snapped from the indignant fairy to the responding baby. The amusement lingering on his face softened into something more purposeful. “Hush now,” he murmured to Lily, his voice dropping into that low, steady register he used only with her. He carefully placed her back into her cradle. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and began with fastidious care to wipe the drool from her chin.

Amora, momentarily forgotten, hovered by the cradle. Her initial fury at his reaction warred with the sight before her. She watched his hands—those same hands that wielded power and had once cupped her trembling form—now moving with a hypnotic, gentle precision. The way his fingers cradled the baby’s head, the soft stroke of the linen…

Her wings stilled, their frantic buzz softening to a faint, thoughtful hum. The indignation seeped out of her, replaced by a quiet, wondering warmth. He was infuriating, arrogant, and as emotionally accessible as a brick wall, but in this small, private moment, he was also… tender.

Alistair, seemingly oblivious to her shift in mood, tucked the handkerchief away. "There," he murmured to the baby, his voice a low rumble. "Presentable."

Amora let out a soft, involuntary sigh. Presentable. Of course. Alistair Sterling is just being Alistair Sterling, treating affection like an inspection.

She drifted closer to the cradle, her own dramatics forgotten as she watched Lily successfully grasp a soft rattle and bring it to her mouth with a determined, slobbery gnaw. "I wonder when she'll start to crawl," Amora mused aloud, more to herself than to him. "It must be such a funny and cute sight, all that determined wriggling."

"Crawling is a distant frontier. Typically around eight or nine months," Alistair stated, his gaze also on the baby, a faint, considering frown on his face. "The real disruption will be the teeth. She's nearly six months. The gnawing is a precursor. The fussing will be... significant. But it's Vivian's problem."

Amora's wings stilled in mid-hum. She floated around to face him, her head tilted in pure, unadulterated shock. "You... you know that? You know about... teething timelines?"

Alistair finally glanced at her, one eyebrow arched as if she'd asked if he knew how to breathe. "It is a predictable, documented stage of human development. One simply has to... read." He said it with the same weight as 'one simply has to breathe,' but Amora wasn't fooled.

"Right. Of course. You just happened to 'read' about infant teething," she said, her voice laced with a bewildered admiration she couldn't hide. "Between ledgers and legislation, you're brushing up on gum inflammation and developmental milestones."

Alistair gave a noncommittal hum, turning back to the cradle. "Preparedness is the foundation of order. Fussing is simply a variable to be anticipated and managed." But Amora caught the faintest, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes. He was pleased with himself. The great Duke Sterling, secretly pleased to have correctly predicted the next phase of baby-related chaos.

___

A few days later, the courtyard was bustling with the orderly chaos of departure. The crisp air was filled with the sounds of harnesses jingling and footmen securing trunks to the carriage. Richard, now returned, stood by the horses, checking the rigging with a practiced eye, while Vivian fussed over a happily gurgling Lily, ensuring she was snug in her traveling blankets.

Alistair stood on the front steps, the picture of ducal propriety, seeing his guests off. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression one of polite, detached calm. The only sign of Amora's presence was a single, tiny hand discreetly holding onto the edge of his waistcoat pocket from the inside, her form completely hidden within the dark fabric.

Amora peeked out through the gap, her tiny hands gripping the fabric as she watched Henry and Rosetta standing a little apart from the adults.

Rosetta’s lower lip trembled, her usual bright energy dimmed. “You’ll write, won’t you?” she asked, her voice small.

Henry, instead of retreating into a shell of formality, stood straight—not with stiff imitation, but with a quiet confidence that was entirely his own. He placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture both awkward and profoundly sincere.

“Of course, I’ll write,” he said, his tone earnest. “And of course we’ll visit again. Probably sooner than you think.” He leaned in a little closer, adopting a conspiratorial whisper, but unfortunately, it was loud enough to be caught by other ears. “My mother says it’s her sacred duty to descend upon Uncle Alistair at least twice a year to ensure he hasn’t fully transformed into a sentient ledger. She claims it keeps him human.”

From his perch on the steps, Alistair’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he gave no other sign of having heard.

A watery giggle escaped Rosetta. “Really?”

“Really,” Henry confirmed with a firm nod, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “So you see, it’s inevitable. I’ll be back before you’ve even had time to finish the new tower on the fort.”

It was a perfect, mature promise—not born from cold duty, but from warm, honest affection and a touch of humor. He had found his own way to be strong.

Final goodbyes were exchanged. Vivian hugged Alistair, who endured it with stoic grace. Richard clapped him on the shoulder. Then the carriage door closed, and with a lurch, it rolled away.

Alistair remained on the steps until it disappeared down the long drive. The moment it was out of sight, he turned on his heel and strode back into the manor.

His path to his study was direct. He walked in, closed the door, and a small, pink blur zipped out of his waistcoat pocket. Amora fluttered over to her familiar perch on the cold inkwell, tucking her wings neatly behind her as she watched him.

He sank into his high-backed leather chair, the familiar creak of the leather a welcome sound. He dragged a hand down his face, then let it fall to the desk with a soft thud. The ledgers were waiting. The silence was absolute.

He sat there for a long moment, not moving. Then, without opening his eyes, he murmured, “You’re being unusually quiet.”

Amora immediately planted her tiny hands on her hips. “I can be quiet! I am the very soul of discretion and serenity! You act like I’ve never once been quiet before!”

A beat of profound, meaningful silence passed between them.

“...Well,” she huffed, her wings giving a defensive little flick. “Maybe not for this long. But the point stands! I am capable of profound and dignified silence when the situation calls for it.”

“A rare cosmic event, then,” Alistair murmured.

Amora gasped. “You—!”

But before she could finish, he opened one eye, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth. Then he reached for his quill, and the strange, hollow feeling in the room was gone.