After the reel with Miss Bennett—and the laughter, the quick turns, the near-misses that had left his heart strangely light—Mr. Blyth had offered her a parting smile and a courteous bow. His farewell was warm but brief, the kind that asked not to be followed. A moment later, he slipped from the ballroom, quiet as breath, out through the tall French windows at the far end of the room.
The garden air was cooler than expected—sharper, almost bracing against his skin. It cut cleanly through the warmth still clinging to him from the ballroom, the echo of movement and music not yet faded from his limbs. From somewhere beyond the hedges came the softened strains of strings and the occasional burst of laughter—half-lost, half-lingering, as if the night itself wasn't sure whether to hold on or let go.
Mr. Blyth exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back to ease the tension that had settled between them like an old habit. The evening had not been unbearable. In truth, Miss Bennett had proven herself pleasant company—clever, composed, kind in a way that didn't demand attention. Their dance had offered a brief reprieve from the heavier rhythms of obligation and performance.
And yet, something still pressed at the edge of his awareness. Not regret, nor dissatisfaction—something quieter than both, but more insistent. A presence in the mind. A weight without a name.
His steps drifted—half guided by thought, half by instinct—toward the farthest edge of the gardens, where the lanterns grew sparse and shadows spilled freely across the paths. There, partially hidden beneath a lattice of ivy, stood a weathered stone pavilion. Its columns leaned into the darkness like old confidants, its purpose quiet and unmistakable: a place for whispered words, for unspoken things not meant for the light.
He slowed.
Someone was already there. A lone figure stood near the railing, the sharp line of his shoulders limned in the weak glow of a nearby lantern.
Mr. Fitzwilliam.
Blyth stopped, not out of fear—but out of knowing. Of suddenly being aware that whatever quiet had led him here was not just his own.
He hesitated.
The man hadn't seen him—or if he had, he made no sign of it. He stood with one hand braced against the stone, the other hanging at his side, fingers lightly curled, motionless. His face was caught between light and shadow, but what Blyth could see of it was too still. Not serene. Just… suspended.
The careful composure Mr. Fitzwilliam wore so easily inside—the effortless poise, the polish—had begun to fray at the edges, like ink bleeding into water.
Then, a shift.
Fitzwilliam set his glass down on the railing. The movement was slow, deliberate. His fingers lingered at the base as though caught in debate, not quite ready to let go. Then, after a breath, he did—his hand withdrawing with careful finality.
Blyth should have turned back, should have taken the hint and left him to the quiet. Instead, he stepped forward.
Fitzwilliam spoke without looking. "I wondered when you would come outside."
His voice was smooth, practiced—but not quite as steady as it should have been.
Blyth tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "And why is that?"
At last, Mr. Fitzwilliam turned.
The lantern's glow caught his face in uneven strokes, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows. Auburn hair, tousled just slightly, shimmered where the light caught it—copper at the temple, gold at the edge.
His lips lifted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "Because you're a man who prefers the shadows."
Blyth let out a quiet breath through his nose. "And you," he asked, "are a man who commands the light?"
Mr. Fitzwilliam huffed a breath that might have been a laugh, though nothing in his expression shifted. "Something like that."
Silence crept in then—familiar, weighty, but not unwelcome.
Blyth studied him. Mr. Fitzwilliam wasn't quite different, but something about him had shifted—like a painting viewed from a new angle: familiar, but altered in a way that couldn't be explained outright.
The air held a faint trace of oak and brandy, warm and sharp, lingering on the folds of Fitzwilliam's coat. Though he still held his glass, it remained untouched, his fingers resting along the rim in perfect stillness, as if even motion might betray something unsaid.
He was thinking—too precisely, too carefully.
"You left rather suddenly earlier," Blyth said, keeping his voice even, testing.
Fitzwilliam's expression flickered, just for a moment, not long enough to catch, but not quite hidden either. He drew in a breath and tilted his head slightly, an elegant gesture with the precision of someone used to performance.
"Did I?" he asked, the words shaped with practiced neutrality.
It was too careful, too poised to be casual.
"You did," Blyth said, his brow arched, tone still light, though his gaze sharpened.
Mr. Fitzwilliam made a low sound—part hum, part breath—and let his gaze drop before returning it to Blyth's with just enough delay to suggest he'd measured the pause.
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Blyth," he said smoothly. "I merely thought it best to leave you to your Miss… evening."
There was a pause. The hesitation before "evening" had been deliberate, and Blyth felt it like the aftertaste of something too carefully sweetened.
His lips parted—to respond, to deflect, to clarify—but no words came. Whatever he'd meant to say vanished beneath the pressure of the moment.
Somehow, without quite realizing it, the space between them had closed. Mr. Fitzwilliam stood nearer now than before—not improperly so, but close enough that the scent of his coat, clean and sharp with a trace of brandy, mingled with the cool night air.
Neither man moved.
The lantern beside them danced in the wind, its golden light casting a shifting pattern across Fitzwilliam's face, sometimes softening it, sometimes hollowing it with shadow.
Then, something changed. He didn't step forward, not exactly—but his weight shifted, subtly, and with it the space between them grew taut, as though charged.
"What is it between you and Miss Bennett?"
The question itself was expected. The tone was not. It was low—deliberate, restrained—spoken like a match drawn too close to a candle's wick, not yet lit but poised to burn.
Blyth's pulse jumped. Not in alarm. In something quieter, deeper. He couldn't name it.
"We are friendly," he said at last. His voice was even, though steadied by effort. "She is good company."
Mr. Fitzwilliam made a quiet sound—something between a hum and a breath, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. It lingered in the space between them like a question left unanswered.
Blyth should have stepped back. The moment called for it—some civil retreat, a well-timed clearing of the throat, an offered excuse to seek fresh air elsewhere. But he didn't move.
Fitzwilliam shifted instead, lifting a hand—not abruptly, not with hesitation, but with the calm certainty of someone who believed the gesture would be accepted. His fingers brushed the silk of Blyth's cravat, adjusting it with care. Then his other hand rose, settling gently at the opposite edge of Blyth's collar, fingertips resting against the fabric as though to steady it.
Or to steady him.
Blyth's breath caught—just slightly, just once. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Fitzwilliam, who now stood close enough to sense the change in the air between them.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The coolness of the night, once sharp and bracing, now pressed in warmer, thicker—like the stillness before a storm. The scent of lantern smoke mingled with garden roses, but all Blyth could feel was the heat of Fitzwilliam's hands, still resting in place as if the world had quieted for this one, held breath of a moment.
And still, he did not step away.
The tips of Mr. Fitzwilliam's fingers came to rest at the edge of Blyth's throat—light, deliberate, and entirely unnecessary. It was not an adjustment but a study, his touch lingering a moment longer than it should have, tracing the silk with the slow care of someone trying to memorize rather than mend. The world beyond them fell away, the music and laughter of the party muffled to a distant murmur, like the memory of sound underwater.
Blyth stood still, every nerve taut, his body caught between instinct and paralysis. He should have moved—should have stepped away, should have said something—but he didn't. Couldn't. The press of Fitzwilliam's thumb beneath the knot of his cravat held him fast, not with force, but with something quieter. More binding.
Both hands remained at his collar, as if tethering him to this exact spot, this exact breath.
Fitzwilliam's brows furrowed slightly, as though truly focused on the task at hand—as though the cravat required such scrutiny, as though this moment was about fabric rather than feeling.
It was not.
And then—too much eye contact.
Blyth couldn't say how long it lasted, only that Mr. Fitzwilliam's gaze held his with an intensity that made the air between them feel thinner. There was no pretense to it, no distraction—just an unwavering stillness, as if time had compressed into the inches that separated them.
The space between breaths felt heavy, taut with something unspoken. Then, almost imperceptibly, Mr. Fitzwilliam's eyes dropped—not with intention, not with boldness, but just low enough to catch the line of Blyth's mouth. It wasn't a declaration, but it didn't have to be. Blyth felt the shift like a spark caught too close to the skin, sharp and sudden, rising unbidden in the pit of his stomach.
A breath hitched. He didn't know whose.
Then it broke.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's hands dropped as if burned, the warmth of them vanishing all at once. His jaw worked, trying to summon words that didn't come. He stepped back—quickly, too quickly for it to seem natural—and in doing so, left behind a hollow space where his presence had been.
Blyth hadn't moved. Couldn't. His body still remembered the weight of those hands, the nearness, the breathless potential of something that had nearly happened.
Mr. Fitzwilliam cleared his throat, adjusted his sleeve with a precision that felt like armor. When he finally spoke, his tone was smooth, as if nothing had happened—but it was the smoothness of control, not comfort.
"There. That's better."
Then, without so much as a glance back, Mr. Fitzwilliam turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the ballroom, his steps swift and purposeful. He left his glass behind on the stone railing, untouched.
Blyth stayed where he was, the garden suddenly too quiet, too still. His hands had curled into loose fists at his sides, not out of anger—but something harder to name. The warmth of Fitzwilliam's touch still lingered at his collar, faint and immovable, like heat trapped in fabric long after a fire has gone out.
It had meant nothing. A meaningless thing. And yet, his pulse had not settled.
The garden air pressed cool against his skin, but he did not feel cold. He did not understand why.
And more than that—he did not want to.
***
The next thing Blyth knew, his boots struck the gravel with a crunch that barely registered over the furious rhythm of his pulse. The cold night air pressed against his face, but he felt too warm, too tightly wound, every nerve lit with something he could not name.
His body moved on instinct—hands already at the nearest horse, movements unsteady and rushed as he fumbled with the bridle, urgency overtaking precision.
A voice called out, distant and uncertain.
"Sir?"
Mr. Calloway, the carriage driver, stepped forward from the shadows, the lantern in his hand casting shifting light over his weathered features. His concern was evident, etched into the slow furrow of his brow.
"Are you leaving alone?"
Blyth didn't answer immediately. He couldn't. His breath came too fast, his chest rising and falling beneath the weight of fabric that suddenly felt constrictive. His coat, his collar—still too neat, too carefully arranged by hands that had lingered where they should not have lingered.
"Inform my mother and sisters I've gone ahead."
Calloway hesitated, shifting slightly. "Shall I—"
"No."
The word cut clean and sharp through the cold, silencing whatever question had been forming.
The driver paused, his expression tight, but he nodded once. He understood something had happened, even if he didn't understand what.
And wisely, he didn't ask.
Blyth grabbed the saddle horn and climbed up, nearly slipping before finding his seat. The horse shifted under him, clearly picking up on his restlessness. He adjusted the reins with more force than necessary and nudged the animal forward without hesitation. The moment they were moving, he pressed harder, urging the horse into a faster pace.
The cold night air cut through his coat as they picked up speed, but it did little to clear his head. His collar still felt stiff against his neck, too crisp, too carefully arranged. He couldn't stop thinking about it—about the hands that had adjusted it, the closeness, the look that had followed.
The sound of hooves pounding against the dirt matched the pounding in his chest. It was a steady rhythm, loud but somehow not enough to drown out the confusion. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, barely noticing the lanterns of the estate fading behind him or the trees slipping past on either side.
He pressed the horse faster, not because he had anywhere to be, but because the movement kept his body occupied. His thoughts wouldn't settle. The harder he tried to shake the memory, the sharper it returned—Mr. Fitzwilliam's hands on his collar, the silence between them, the flicker of a gaze that felt too direct.
He didn't understand what it meant, or why it mattered, only that something had happened and now he couldn't seem to let it go. He felt off balance, like he'd stepped into something he hadn't seen coming and didn't know how to step back out of.
Nothing about the night had gone as expected. And now, riding fast into the dark, the cold air stinging his skin, he realized he wasn't sure what he was running from—only that he couldn't go back inside. Not yet.
Blyth's stomach turned, a knot tightening somewhere deep that refused to loosen. He could still feel it—Mr. Fitzwilliam's hands, the brief pressure, the way his fingers lingered just slightly before pulling away. It wasn't much, but it had been enough to leave a mark.
He pulled in a sharp breath and gripped the reins more tightly. No. He couldn't let his thoughts wander down that path. He just needed to get home.
The wind pushed hard against him as he rode, whistling past his ears while the trees swayed under its force. The road beneath them had grown rough, the horse's gait a little more uncertain as they approached the familiar rise near Greymoor's gates.
Still, the cold did nothing to ease the heat lodged in his chest. He tugged the reins without thinking, and the horse reared slightly before slowing. The sudden jolt broke through the noise in his head, and he exhaled sharply, the breath cutting through his teeth.
The outline of Greymoor House rose in the dark ahead, the windows dim, the structure still and quiet. He was home—but his pulse hadn't slowed, and the tension in his shoulders hadn't left. Even with the ride behind him, he still felt unsteady, and no closer to understanding why.
***
Blyth barely remembered entering the house. The faint glow of low-burning lamps flickered along the corridor walls, casting long shadows that wavered with each step he took. Somewhere in the distance, a voice murmured and a floorboard creaked, but he didn't stop to listen. His boots struck the marble floor too hard, too fast. No one stepped in his way. Maybe they saw the look on his face—or maybe they simply didn't see him at all.
He moved forward without thinking, passing doors and portraits he'd walked by hundreds of times without ever really seeing them. His body knew where it was going before his mind caught up.
He opened the office door and stepped inside.
The air was colder here, more stagnant. The office felt untouched, as though time had paused the moment his father last walked out. The scent of paper, leather, and something faintly musty lingered, clinging to the heavy furniture. Dust gathered on the edges of stacked papers that no one had touched, their neatness undisturbed.
Curtains hung thick over the windows, letting in only a narrow sliver of light. Shadows stretched across the room, painting everything in shades of gray.
Nothing had changed; except him.
His breath came uneven, though he couldn't have said why. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his pulse beating heavily in his chest. The silence pressed in from all corners of the room, dense and suffocating.
He moved quickly, crossing to the desk where the crystal decanter stood. It was familiar—solid in its place, always there—but distant in a way that made his stomach twist. His father had ended every night with a drink from it. Blyth had never reached for it himself.
Except on nights like this. Nights when the world no longer made sense.
His hand trembled as he poured, the liquid sloshing up the sides of the glass. He'd poured too much, but he didn't stop. The brandy's sharp scent hit him first, thick and bitter. He stared at the glass for a long second, then drank it in one pull.
It burned, but not enough. He poured again, faster this time.
His chest still felt tight, his skin too hot, his breath refusing to come evenly.
He drank again.
The exhale that followed was harsh and loud in the stillness. It didn't help. What was happening to him?
He pressed his fingers hard against his forehead, as though he could drive the thought out by force, push it back before it took root. It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. A mistake. A lapse in judgment. Something to be filed away and forgotten.
He took another drink.
The burn should have helped—should have dulled the edges, softened the noise in his head. But the heat did nothing. The thoughts stayed, unwelcome and persistent. His hands still trembled.
With a sudden shove, he pushed back from the desk. The chair dragged loudly across the floor, breaking the silence like a crack. He turned away—toward the fireplace, toward the far wall, toward anything but the desk and the drink and the tightening in his chest.
It wasn't as if Mr. Fitzwilliam had—
He stopped cold, his breath caught in his throat.
The sentence had already begun in his mind before he understood where it was going. He didn't finish it. He couldn't. The rest was a void—too vague to name, too precise to ignore.
It wasn't as if he had—what?
Done something?
Meant something?
Blyth inhaled again, too fast, too deep, trying to chase the thought out before it could fully form, but it was too late.
His jaw tightened, fingers curling into fists until his nails pressed hard against his palms. Heat built beneath his skin, restless and agitated, his breathing uneven. He was too aware of himself—his limbs, his heartbeat, the scratch of fabric at his collar.
The office felt smaller somehow. The walls closer, the ceiling lower. Every corner of the room seemed to press inward, narrowing his space, compressing the air.
His pulse thudded in his ears, fast and heavy. The brandy lingered bitter on his tongue, coating his mouth. He tried to swallow it down, but it clung stubbornly, like something trying to stay.
Something wasn't right. He could feel it shifting, settling under his skin. He had to push it back, had to stop it before it took shape. Before it became something he couldn't undo. Before it became real.
***
Time had slipped from him. He wasn't sure how many times he'd refilled the glass—too many, probably. The burn no longer registered. Each swallow came with the same dull promise, and each time it failed. The thoughts were still there, crowding his head, heavy and impossible to ignore.
His body felt off, like something had come loose inside him and wouldn't settle again. He couldn't name it. He couldn't stop it.
The brandy hadn't helped. If anything, it had made everything worse. His limbs felt weighted and distant, his thoughts sluggish but relentless, his breath shallow no matter how slowly he tried to draw it.
The office was stifling. The air too dense. The walls felt closer than they had before, like they were pushing in.
So he had left. Or at least, he'd tried.
The corridor outside his father's office was dimly lit, the flickering sconces casting long, unsteady shadows along the floor. He moved without aim, each step unmoored, his boots dragging, his shoulder knocking into the edge of a doorway before he righted himself.
Somewhere, beneath the haze, he knew he wasn't walking straight.
He needed to—
He needed to get upstairs.
Yes. Upstairs. That was right.
The thought had barely taken shape before his stomach turned. His step hitched. The floor shifted beneath him, the air thickening until it pressed hard behind his eyes.
He blinked, but the hallway refused to level.
The banister. He needed to—
His hand reached out, but grasped only air.
A gasp tore from his throat as his knees buckled, his body suddenly too heavy, too distant to control.
The impact came hard and fast. His shoulder struck the marble first, a jolt of pain shooting through his side, followed by the dull, sickening thud of his head against the edge of the entryway rug. The breath fled his lungs in an instant, leaving him gasping, vision splintering at the edges as the world spun in a sick blur of golden ceilings and shifting shadows.
Then—faces. Blurred figures hovering above, sliding in and out of focus.
Mrs. Blyth. Margaret. Eleanor. And behind them, Mrs. Redley, the housekeeper, her usual brisk composure now marked with worry.
Their voices came next. Muffled. Distant. Like sound traveling through deep water.
"Henry, for heaven's sake—"
"Is he hurt?"
"You let him drink this much?"
"Of course I didn't, ma'am—he must have—"
The words bled together, overlapping in a swirl of noise and movement. His stomach churned. The taste of brandy and something bitter coated his tongue.
Then, a sharper voice cut through it all—his mother's, unmistakable.
"Henry Blyth, get up this instant, you absolute disgrace—"
And then—
Blackness.