Tristan opened the door and left the latch open. He stepped inside. Bridgitte and Gino stood by the table, hands folded as if waiting for judgment.
"Thank you for helping this month," Tristan said. "You worked hard. The recital was a success, and I am grateful."
Neither moved. Both knew there was more.
"Tonight is your last day here," Tristan said. His voice was calm but final. "I will pay you in full for the month, and I will add a coin for the recital. But you cannot continue."
Bridgitte lowered her eyes. "Because of my uncle."
"Yes," Tristan said. "Because of your uncle. And because you wrote to him about my life here. You told me you had stopped sending details, and I believe you. But the risk remains."
She swallowed hard. "I am sorry."
"I believe you are," Tristan said gently. "But I must protect myself and this place."
He turned to Gino. "And you. Your letters to Randell found their way to Terry. You did not mean harm, but Terry still wants to damage my name. The result is the same."
Gino's face fell. "I did not know it would reach him."
"I know," Tristan replied. "I am not angry. But I cannot ignore it."
He placed a folded sheet of parchment on the table. "Sign this agreement. After we part ways, I do not want to hear stories at the market, the town plaza, or anywhere else. Do not use me, or what we are building here, as bait for others."
Neither argued. They signed in silence.
Tristan set two small pouches beside the paper. "Your wages. Thank you for your work. Please do not come back. If anyone asks what happens here, tell them only that children learn to play the violin, and that the teacher keeps his door locked."
Gino nodded slowly. "I understand."
Bridgitte lifted her eyes. "Will you tell my uncle I am finished?"
"I will tell no one," Tristan said. "You will. And then you will stop writing to him."
Her lips trembled. "He will be angry."
"Then tell him I dismissed you," Tristan answered. "That is the truth."
Bridgitte picked up her pouch and tucked it into her cloak. "Thank you for letting me stay until the recital."
"Go home safe," Tristan said.
Gino took his pouch as well. "I am sorry, Teacher."
"Learn from it," Tristan said softly.
They left by the back door, their footsteps fading into the night. Tristan checked the latch and returned to the porch.
Shannon waited near the steps, arms folded. "How did it go?"
"Clean," Tristan said. "No raised voices."
"Good," Shannon said. "I will have someone follow at a distance to make sure they go home—and nowhere else."
"Thank you," Tristan said.
They sat together on the porch steps. The garden was still. The last lantern flickered near the gate.
Shannon spoke first. "There is one more question. Why keep teaching when the pressure grows?"
Tristan looked down at his hands. "Because the children want to learn. Because this is the first thing that feels right since the camp. Because I am tired of moving every time someone pushes."
Shannon's voice was steady. "Then we will hold the ground with you."
Tristan let out a breath. "I do not want Eira pulled into this again. She carried me through the worst part. She deserves a quiet life."
"She will have one," Shannon assured him. "I will brief her only if needed for your health. Not for this."
Tristan nodded. "Good."
Shannon stood. "I will walk the fence before I leave."
"I will come," Tristan said.
They walked the inside edge of the property together. Shannon checked the gate posts, the shadows near the coop, the ground by the stream. No one waited there. No tracks were fresh. He paused by the treeline and touched the grass with his boot.
"Two sets of prints," he said. "Light steps. They came through yesterday at dusk and left when the lanterns were lit."
"You saw that so quickly?" Tristan asked.
Shannon gave a faint shrug. "I have practice."
They returned to the porch.
"If the Steward is the watcher," Tristan said, "he will not stop."
"No," Shannon said. "But he will make a mistake. They always do when anger blinds them. When he does, we will be ready."
Tristan nodded slowly. "What about the ledger?"
"I will send two inquiries tonight," Shannon said. "One to Lady Arriane. One to a clerk who handled the camp receipts. If the ledger still exists, someone has seen it or copied it. If it is gone, then the Steward is using a ghost to keep you afraid."
"Either way," Tristan murmured, "he keeps watching."
"For now," Shannon agreed.
Marla opened the door and leaned out. "Tea is still warm. Both of you, come in before you catch a chill."
They stepped inside. Shannon took a cup and stood near the hearth. Tristan leaned against the table, watching the firelight on the walls.
"Next month," Shannon said, "keep the class at eight. No more for now. Ask parents to sign one line about privacy and safety. Keep a list of who comes and goes. If a stranger asks questions, send for me."
"I will," Tristan said.
Shannon set down his cup. "I will come by again in three days. My men start tonight. If you notice marks near the fence or find parcels at the door, do not touch them. Call Marla. She will signal us."
"All right," Tristan said.
Shannon moved to the door. He paused and looked back. "You did well tonight."
"Thank you," Tristan said. "For the violins. And for showing up."
"That is my duty," Shannon replied. "And my choice."
He left by the front path and mounted his horse. Tristan watched him ride out to the road and turn toward the main lane.
The cottage grew quiet again. Marla washed the last tray and set it to dry. Tristan checked the door lock before blowing out the porch lantern.
No movement. No voices. Only the steady sound of the stream behind the house.
He sat at his desk and wrote a short note for the morning:
Post privacy notice at town hall.
Return extra chairs.
Speak to parents about next month.
New roster: eight only.
He set the note under a paperweight and closed the shutters.
"Sleep," Marla said from the kitchen. "You will need your strength."
"I will," Tristan answered.
He looked once at the dark treeline through the narrow gap in the window. Then he turned away and went to his room.
Outside, something shifted just beyond the fence and went still again. Not close. Not far. Waiting.