He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loud against the floor, and ran from the room before Thaddeus could form a response.
The dining room fell silent.
Thaddeus sat alone at the long table, surrounded by untouched food and guttering candles. The servants had withdrawn to the shadows, their presence marked only by the occasional clink of silver being cleared, the whisper of fabric as they moved through their duties with careful efficiency.
Everyone leaves.
The words echoed in the vast space, bouncing off the panelled walls, the high ceiling, the cold perfection of a room designed for entertaining guests who never came.
His father had sat at this table after his mother died. Alone. Night after night, consuming meals he did not taste, maintaining routines that no longer held meaning. Thaddeus had watched it happen from the doorway—too young to help, too terrified to intervene—and sworn he would never become that man.
And yet.
He looked down at his plate. The food had gone cold. He had no appetite for it anyway.
Slowly he rose and left the dining room.
The nursery corridor was dark when Thaddeus climbed the stairs an hour later. He had meant to give the boy time to settle, to calm from his outburst. But the silence of the house had grown oppressive, and some part of him—some part he had thought safely buried—needed to ensure Oliver was well.
He reached the nursery door and stopped.
It was closed and he stood awkwardly outside. He ought to open the door. Perhaps give the boy some comfort, though he had no idea how he would manage that. He raised his hand to knock.
His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood.
From within came no sound. No weeping. No movement. Just the terrible silence of a child who had learned that expressing pain brought no comfort, that crying changed nothing.
Thaddeus’s hand remained raised.
He should knock. Better yet, just open the door and enter. But what would he say once inside?
You are leaving for school in the morning, and this is for your own good.
Lady Maribel made her choice, and you must accept it.
Stop feeling so much. Stop needing people. Stop making yourself vulnerable to loss.
He couldn’t say it, because he could no longer pretend that it was true.
His hand lowered to his side.
He stood there for several minutes more, listening to the silence, wondering when he had turned into his own father. Then he turned and walked back down the corridor.
His own chamber was as he had left it—perfectly ordered, perfectly empty. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at nothing.
The clock on the mantel marked the hours. Midnight came and went. The house settled into deeper quiet.
Thaddeus did not sleep.
Instead he waited and watched silently through the window as dawn broke grey and cold over Blackwood Estate.
Thaddeus descended to Oliver’s room at seven o’clock, determined to ensure the boy was prepared for departure. Thecarriage would arrive in two hours. Mrs. Allen had packed the trunk. Everything was arranged.
He knocked once, firmly, and waited.
No response.
“Oliver. Are you awake?”
