She watched him work, fascinated by the quiet intensity of his concentration. His brow was drawn, his lower lip caught lightly between his teeth, every part of him absorbed in the act.
He looked—she thought—strangely free.
As though drawing allowed him, for a moment, to set aside the weight he usually carried.
“What about you?” she asked. “What made you laugh as a child?”
The charcoal paused briefly.
Then resumed.
“Not very much,” he admitted. “My childhood was not… abundant in laughter. But there were moments.”
Another pause.
“There was a footman, when I was very young—Arthur, I believe. He used to make shadow puppets upon the nursery wall. Rabbits, dogs, dragons. I thought it was magic.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It was.” His voice remained even. “Until my father discovered it and dismissed him. He said it was inappropriate for a servant to entertain the heir in such a frivolous manner.”
Fiona felt the old ache of it.
“I cried for a week,” he added quietly.
“Christian—”
“Do not.” He looked up at her, meeting her gaze. “Do not pity me. That is not why I told you. I told you because you asked—and because I want you to know all of me. Even the sad parts. Especially those.”
“I do not pity you.” Her voice softened. “I ache for the child you were. That is not the same thing.”
“Is it not?”
“No. Pity is reserved for those we consider lesser.” She held his gaze steadily. “What I feel for that boy is love—for who he was, and for who he became despite everything.”
His throat tightened. He dropped his gaze back to the paper.
“You make concentration exceedingly difficult,” he said roughly.
“Good. You were becoming far too absorbed. I was beginning to feel like a bowl of fruit.”
He laughed—genuinely startled—and the tension eased.
“A bowl of fruit?” he repeated.
“Something placed there to be looked at, though not expected to be particularly lively.”
“My sincerest apologies,” he said. “I shall endeavour to restore your sense of animation.”
“Please do.”
They exchanged a smile, the warmth between them as tangible as the fire in the hearth.
***
An hour passed. Then two.
The rain continued its steady percussion against the windows, and the light in the parlour faded from grey to greyer, yet neither suggested stopping. Christian worked with quiet intensity, occasionally asking Fiona to turn her head or shift her posture. She obliged, filling the silence with stories, observations, and the easy conversation of two people who had become—without quite noticing it—each other’s closest companions.
