The manor of Blackwood, though hushed in the lateness of the hour, seemed to breathe with a strange, unsettled life. Shadows stretched like fingers across the corridors, the echo of a distant clock marking the passage of minutes with the solemnity of tolling bells. Beyond the chamber doors, August lay in uneasy repose, Elias keeping ever vigilant at his side—green eyes catching each flicker of his pallor, each faint tremor of fever that dared return.
But in the drawing room below, another storm brewed.
Everin sat perched upon the edge of a velvet chair, his restless hands folded, unfolded, then folded again, until at last impatience overcame him. He rose in a flourish, his curly hair tumbling in golden disarray as his voice rang—his hundredth plea of the night.
"Aunt Katherine," he entreated, his tone half supplication, half indignation, "just this once—permit me to see him. Only for a moment, I beg you."
Lady Katherine reclined upon the chaise lounge, her figure statuesque even in fatigue, the lamplight catching upon the pearls that clasped her throat. With one hand she pressed lightly against her temple, as though his words, repeated so endlessly, had become a drumbeat against her skull.
"You weary me, Everin," she replied, her sigh drawn from the very depths of long-suffering patience. "Have you given the faintest thought to what you have done? Or do you imagine your whims excuse every trespass?"
His blue eyes flickered downward, chastened yet still smouldering with that fiery obstinacy peculiar to youth. He shifted his weight, tapping the toe of his boot against the carpet, as if seeking words to defend his heart without betraying it too openly.
"I know what I have done," he muttered, lashes lowering like honeyed veils. "I know I slipped from my house unseen, with an excuse to my Mother. Yet what of it? I would have gone a thousand times farther, risked tenfold more, if only it meant seeing my cousin again. August is—" He faltered, breath catching, then lifted his head in sudden, defiant brightness. "He is my dearest treasure. Can you deny me that?"
Katherine's hand fell from her temple to the curve of the cushions, her gaze turning upon him with the gravity of a matron who had endured far too many youthful rebellions.
"And if Valemont learns of this little escapade?" she asked coolly, the name like frost upon her tongue. "Do you know the chaos it would unleash? The whispering tongues, the wagging heads? You are reckless, child—reckless to the point of ruin."
Everin's lips curled in a half-smile, almost mischievous, though the tightness of his jaw betrayed the effort it cost him. "Ruined?" he repeated, with a flare of drama that seemed deliberately wrought to irritate her further.
"If ruin means that I love him without apology, then so be it. Let him whisper. Let the world wag their heads. I shall bear it gladly, so long as I may look upon him again."
Katherine closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as though she might summon patience from the very air. The boy was impossible—stubborn as iron, luminous as fire, impossible to scold without wounding her own heart.
"You speak as though you were in some poet's tale," she murmured, leaning back, the folds of her gown rustling like soft thunder. "But life, Everin, is not verse. It is duty. It is consequence. And you treat both as trifles."
He stepped closer, a daring sparkle in his gaze, his golden lashes sweeping upward. "Then I will be a trifler until the grave," he declared, his voice ringing through the quiet chamber. "For nothing—nothing in this world—could keep me from August's side. Not your lectures, not my father wrath, not the laws of propriety, nor the sneers of society. He is mine to adore, and I shall not cease."
At that, Katherine let out another long sigh, softer this time, as though resignation had replaced exasperation. She lifted her hand once more, not to strike, not even to scold, but merely to shade her eyes from the force of his brilliance.
"What am I to do with you?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Everin, emboldened, dropped to one knee beside her chaise, his boyish fire tempered into sudden tenderness. He clasped her hand with both of his own, raising it reverently toward his lips, though he did not kiss it. His voice softened, threaded with sincerity.
"Do nothing, Aunt. Only let me see him. Only once. And I will trouble you no more."
Her ivory-toned brows arched delicately, betraying the faintest quiver of emotion. For all his impudence, he was dearer to her than she would ever confess. His loyalty, his passion, his stubborn heart—they were the very qualities that made him dangerous, yet also the very things that endeared him.
For a long moment, she gazed upon him, silent, weighing her response. The fire crackled in the hearth, the clock struck once more, and the house itself seemed to wait.
Finally, she withdrew her hand, settling it once more upon the arm of the chaise. "You are a storm, Everin," she said quietly, "and storms may not be stayed. But for tonight, you must rest your winds. Tomorrow—perhaps."
Everin lowered his gaze, defeated in words but not in spirit. The spark still lived within his eyes, the oath unspoken but unbroken: if tomorrow would not yield, then the next day, or the next. For he would not stop—no, not until his precious cousin's eyes met his own once more.
The hour had grown long, and Lady Katherine, wearied by both care and contention, reclined upon her chaise as though the cushions themselves might swallow her fatigue. Her gloved hand rose to her brow, shielding her eyes from the waning glow of the hearth. Yet no gesture could banish the image that haunted her thoughts—her boy, her precious August, pale and stubborn as ever, lying beyond her reach.
A sigh escaped her lips, soft but edged with despair. "Stubborn boy," she whispered, the words caught between lament and fondness. "He has never listened—never. Not once. Always with his head turned, always with that fire in his eyes. My poor, obstinate child."
Her voice faltered, but her thoughts pressed on, unyielding. Had she not warned him? Had she not tried to shield him from every shadow the world might cast? Yet August had ever been a creature of his own will, a star that refused the firmament's chains.
The rustle of skirts interrupted her reverie. A maid appeared at the threshold, a gentle figure whose presence seemed always tempered with kindness—the softest among the three who served the household with such devotion. She bowed her head slightly, her tone carrying both respect and quiet urgency.
"Lady Katherine," the maid said, "the guest chamber is prepared. Might I lead you there now? The night grows late, and you are in need of rest."
Katherine lowered her hand at last, the weight of exhaustion drawing her to her feet. She glanced once more toward the darkened corridor that led to August's chamber, her heart tugged like a tether stretched thin.
"Very well," she murmured. "Lead on, child. Though my thoughts shall not leave him, I will do as you bid."
And so she departed, the maid guiding her with careful steps, their retreat swallowed by the hush of distant corridors.
Yet Everin remained. Alone now in the drawing room, he lingered restlessly by the hearth, pacing with the quick impatience of a caged hawk. His hands clasped behind his back, his luminous blue eyes betrayed both weariness and a heart too stubborn to surrender.
It was then that the door stirred upon its hinges, and into the dimness glided Lirael. Draped in sober garments that caught what little light remained, he moved with a composure too smooth, too measured. His voice, when it came, was soft as the rustle of pages in a sacred book.
"Young master," he murmured, inclining his head with courtesy that felt both polished and elusive. "It grows late. You should rest. The night does not wait upon desire, however fervent."
Everin stilled, lashes trembling as though he might protest. Yet no defiance came. With restless fingers smoothing his garments, he allowed himself to be guided.
Through hushed corridors they passed, the air thick with the secrets of midnight. Lirael's step was soundless, his profile carved in alternating shadow and lamplight. At last, upon the stair, Everin's suspicion broke its silence.
"I have not seen you before," he said suddenly, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "Who are you, that you move so freely through Blackwood manor?"
For a moment, Lirael's lips curved—not warmly, but with a weary smile touched by shadows.
"It is but a matter of time, young master," he replied. "I was summoned for one cause only—your cousin's malady. They believed I might ease the affliction. Yet, as fate would have it, matters worsened before they could mend."
His words held no pride, no sorrow—only inevitability, as though resignation were the marrow of his being.
Everin's gaze lingered, sharp as a blade and tender as flame. But he pressed no further. With a subdued exhale, he crossed the threshold of his chamber, leaving the corridor to its silence.
The hush of midnight clung to the chamber, where the air smelled faintly of lavender water and extinguished flame. The white curtains trembled with the faintest draft, their ghostly sway casting shadows that seemed to breathe. And there, upon the bed, August lay—his ivory frame swallowed by linen sheets, his lashes pale as frost against the fragile pallor of his cheeks.
Yet his rest was no true rest. His lashes quivered as though burdened by dreams too heavy for sleep, and the faint shudder of his breath betrayed a body at war with itself. The poison's trace still lingered in his veins, cruel and unseen, and every shallow rise of his chest mocked the hope of recovery.
Elias sat beside him, fixed as though carved into the oaken chair, his tall frame bent forward in still vigilance. One hand rested against his knee, the other clenched against the polished armrest as though holding fast to composure. He had been told to wait—wait until the fever broke, wait until strength returned. Yet waiting had become its own torment, sharper than any blade.
His thoughts turned inward, the silence of the chamber drawing forth a voice unspoken:
His gaze, at length, drifted from the restless figure on the bed to the wall beyond, where an old portrait caught the dim glow of the hearth. Three figures stood within its painted frame—August's father, solemn and stately, his hand resting with quiet authority upon the shoulder of a woman whose eyes seemed to burn even through oil and varnish. She was no stranger to Elias. He had seen her before—yet not in waking life.
In dreams she came, cloaked in shadow and joy, her voice tremulous and piercing. She had spoken to him as no dream-phantom ought, her lips shaping a single word that unsettled the marrow of his bones. Son.
And there, nestled between them in the portrait, was an infant—swaddled, pale-haired, wide-eyed. Elias's gaze lingered upon the child, his jaw set. He did not doubt for an instant that it was August. But if so—what then was the meaning of the woman's voice, calling to him with such aching familiarity?
His thoughts coiled like smoke, patient yet restless beneath their still surface. When will you get better, August, he vowed silently, I will ask. I must ask. Who was she? Why does she haunt my dreams? And why—why, above all—does she call me son?
The hour slipped onward, yet Elias remained fixed in his vigil. His posture betrayed no weariness, his emerald gaze shifting only between the pale sleeper and the painted faces on the wall. Time could stretch, hours could wither—but he would endure. For the question, like the dream, would not release him.
Until August woke, Elias would wait.