The house was quiet when Harrow returned.
Not silent — there was the faint clink of cutlery from the dining room and the low murmur of his wife's voice — but contained. Ordered. As it should be.
He removed his coat and hat in the hall and stepped into the lamplight.
His son sat at the table with his back straight, hands folded in front of him. A boy of nine, narrow-shouldered, hair parted carefully as instructed each morning. His wife sat opposite, posture composed, though she glanced up quickly when Harrow entered.
"You are late," she said gently.
"Court extended."
She did not ask why.
He took his seat.
Supper was served in quiet sequence. Stew. Bread. A small glass of watered wine.
For a time, only the sounds of chewing and the faint ticking of the clock in the next room filled the space.
Then his son spoke.
"Father."
Harrow looked up.
"Yes."
"I broke the ink bottle."
His wife's fork paused midair.
"When?" Harrow asked.
"This afternoon. In your study."
Harrow set his spoon down carefully.
"How?"
"I was looking at your books."
"You were instructed not to enter my study."
"Yes."
"And yet you did."
The boy swallowed. "Yes."
His wife interjected softly. "It was an accident."
Harrow did not look at her.
"Did you attempt to conceal it?" he asked the boy.
The boy hesitated.
"Yes."
"How?"
"I wiped the desk."
"With what?"
"My sleeve."
"And when that failed?"
"I left."
The boy's voice had grown thinner.
Harrow nodded once.
"You have done wrong twice, then. Disobedience and concealment."
"Yes."
His wife set her fork down fully now.
"He came to tell you," she said.
"He came after he could not repair it," Harrow replied.
The boy's hands tightened in his lap.
"I was going to tell you," he said quickly. "I meant to."
Harrow regarded him without visible anger.
"Intention does not undo action."
The boy's eyes filled, though he did not look away.
"What should be done?" Harrow asked.
The question hung.
The boy did not answer.
His wife did.
"He is a child," she said. "He has admitted fault."
Harrow shifted his gaze to her.
"And?"
"Must there be punishment for every error?"
"For every disobedience."
"He broke a bottle."
"He entered my study against instruction."
"And confessed."
"He confessed because concealment failed."
His wife's jaw tightened slightly.
"Is that what you believe of everyone?" she asked quietly.
Harrow did not respond at once.
Outside, a cart rolled past, wheels scraping stone.
"He admitted wrongdoing," Harrow said finally. "Admission confirms guilt."
"And does it not also confirm conscience?"
He looked at her then.
"Conscience does not negate consequence."
Silence settled.
The boy's breathing had grown shallow. He stared at the table as though awaiting a verdict.
"You will replace the bottle from your allowance," Harrow said. "And you will not enter my study again without permission."
"Yes," the boy whispered.
"And if you do?"
"I will tell you at once."
Harrow nodded.
"See that you do."
The boy's shoulders sagged slightly in relief.
His wife did not resume eating.
After supper, Harrow rose and stepped into his study.
The ink bottle lay shattered in the waste bin. A dark stain marked the edge of the desk where the wood had absorbed what wiping could not remove.
He ran a finger across it.
The stain would not disappear.
Behind him, in the hallway, he heard his son's voice again.
"I also took a coin from Mother's purse last week."
A pause.
"I meant to put it back."
The words came small. Careful.
Harrow did not turn.
His wife's reply was too low to hear.
He stood alone in the lamplight, looking at the mark on the desk.
The house had been orderly.
Now it felt less so.
From somewhere beyond the walls, carried faintly through the evening air, came the sound of raised voices in the street.
Not shouting.
Talking.
Layered over one another.
Harrow closed the study door.
Tomorrow, the court would reconvene.
And he would expect clarity.