Edward pushed himself upright, dragging a hand down his face. His shirt clung faintly to his skin, damp with sweat. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there until the worst of it passed, until the war receded once more into memory where it belonged.
Sleep would not return.
He pulled on his dressing gown and left his chambers, his steps carrying him instinctively toward the library. Books had always been his refuge in such moments—orderly, contained, obedient to reason in a way the past never was.
The door stood ajar.
Edward slowed, surprise sharpening his senses. He pushed it open quietly and stopped just inside the threshold.
Charlotte sat curled in one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, a candle guttering on the table beside her. She wore a simple nightgown, pale and unadorned, with a small shawl drawn loosely around her shoulders.
Her hair lay unbound, spilling down her back in soft disarray. She looked smaller like this. Younger. Entirely unguarded.
For a moment, he simply watched.
The candlelight touched her face gently, catching in the curve of her cheek, the line of her mouth as she read. The housekeeper’s governess. His employee. And yet—here, in the quiet of the night—she looked nothing like a figure who belonged to rules or roles.
Edward felt the pull of it before he could stop himself and resented it at once.
She sensed him then, lifting her head abruptly. Her eyes widened, color rising faintly in her cheeks as she recognized him.
“Your Grace,” she said, already setting the book aside and rising. “I—please forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I could not sleep.”
He held up a hand. “You are not intruding.” The words came more gently than he intended. “The library is … not forbidden.”
She hesitated, relief flickering across her face before she nodded. “Thank you.”
She gathered her shawl closer, and only then did Edward notice how tightly she held herself—as though the stillness she projected required effort.
“I find it helps,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the shelves. “After the accident.”
His attention sharpened. “The accident?”
She nodded, gaze dropping briefly to the book in her hands. “The carriage. The one that killed my parents.” Her voice did not waver, but something was guarded in the way she spoke, as though choosing each word precisely. “I still hear it sometimes. The splintering wood. The horses.” She swallowed. “Reading gives my mind something else to hold.”
Edward felt a chill trace its way down his spine.
For a moment, he thought to ask more—where, how, whose fault—but the words lodged fast in his throat. The questions felt intrusive. Too sharp.
And she had already given enough.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quickly, mistaking his silence. “I should not have said anything. I did not mean to—”
“No,” he interrupted, forcing himself back into the present. “You did nothing wrong.”
He stepped further into the room then, drawn by something he did not entirely trust. He took the chair opposite hers, leaving an appropriate distance between them.
“I do not sleep well either,” he said after a moment. The admission surprised him even as it left his mouth. “After the war.”
She looked at him with quiet attentiveness, not pity, not curiosity—simply listening.
“I wake believing I am still there,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the fire. “That if I open my eyes quickly enough, I might prevent what comes next. And then I remember.” His jaw tightened. “That my brother is dead. That my wife is dead. That the title passed while I was gone.” He exhaled slowly. “It is a peculiar sort of grief. To mourn what you did not witness.”
Charlotte’s voice was very soft when she spoke. “I am sorry for your losses.”
He nodded once, unable to look at her.
The silence between them felt different now—less strained, more … shared.
