( chapter thirty-four ! )

"I should think they would have the sense to direct their attentions elsewhere."

The drawing room of the Barret townhouse is more lively than it has ever been, filled to the brim with men who carry various gifts and dull personalities. Leah's fingers trail along the rim of her teacup as another footman announces the arrival of yet another gentleman and she does not bother looking up. The whole exercise is rather ridiculous, a parade of hopeful men vying for a hand she has already promised to another.

Vivienne, seated beside her, does not share the sentiment. "Nonsense, Leah. This is as much about appearances as it is about courtship. It would reflect rather poorly on you if no one called at all, betrothed or not," she smiles as she says it, but there is always that sharp edge to her words. The underlying suggestion that Leah should be grateful for the attention she receives.

Across the room, Gwendolyn appears to be enjoying herself immensely. The moment a new gentleman bows in greeting, she fixes him with a look that is just a little too keen, just sharp enough to unsettle. "And what, sir, compels you to waste your morning on a lady already spoken for?" she inquires, eyes glittering with amusement.

The poor man, a rather unremarkable fellow with a receding hairline and an unfortunate waistcoat, stammers through some nonsense about courtesy and admiration. Leah nearly pities him. Nearly is a rather strong word.

Florence, ever the mediator, clears her throat delicately. "Gwendolyn, dear, let us not scare them away before they have even had the chance to sit."

There are several men in attendance, some appearing more earnest than others. A few hover near the edges of the room, uncertain of how to engage, while others do their best to charm despite the obvious futility of their efforts. Leah offers the appropriate smiles and murmured pleasantries, but she is not inclined to encourage them. She even nods at all the right moments as Vivienne boasts of her accomplishments.

"My daughter speaks French, Chinese, German, and Latin with enviable fluency. Her tutors have always remarked upon her intellect."

That, at least, is true. Leah has always excelled in her studies, but she knows well enough that her intelligence is not what will secure her place in society. Beauty, elegance, the Barrett name—all of those things work in her favor. Whether she can quote Horace in Latin is of little consequence.

One of the suitors, a particularly overeager young man with a mop of curls and an unfortunate habit of wringing his hands, leans forward with evident enthusiasm. "It must be a remarkable thing to possess such a mind. Miss Barrett, do tell me, what are your thoughts on the recent lectures at Oxford concerning Greek philosophy?"

Leah meets his gaze, expression unreadable. She could answer in detail, could dissect every argument and counterargument, but what would be the point? Instead, she offers a demure smile. "I am afraid my opinions on the matter would be of little interest to you, sir."

Lounging against the armrest of a nearby settee, Gwendolyn lets out a barely suppressed laugh. "Oh, come now, Leah. Surely you must indulge the poor man."

Vivienne shoots her niece a warning look, but the damage is already done. The gentleman, clearly flustered, glances between them before offering a sheepish chuckle. "Of course. Forgive me. I only meant to express my admiration."

It is all so dreadfully tedious. Leah wishes, not for the first time, that she could simply fast-forward through this entire affair. She knows her duty. She will attend the balls, she will be seen, she will allow the men to swarm for a time before the season inevitably ends and she returns to Ciel's side, secured and triumphant. This is all merely a formality.

Across the room, another suitor attempts his luck. This one is older and more composed with the air of a man who considers himself quite clever. "Miss Barrett, I must say, I find your composure most admirable. Many young ladies would be quite overwhelmed by such attention."

Leah inclines her head. "One must grow accustomed to such things, I suppose."

"Indeed. And tell me, do you find it flattering or tiresome?"

The question is a trap, one she will not be foolish enough to step into. Instead, she lifts her teacup, considering her words before replying. "I find it an inevitability."

He smiles at that as if she has said something particularly clever, though she has merely stated a fact.

Gwendolyn, meanwhile, seems to have made it her personal mission to unsettle as many callers as possible without entirely ruining her reputation. She asks questions just a shade too forward and makes observations that dance on the edge of propriety. It is a delicate balance. One wrong step and she will be dismissed as too difficult, too opinionated, and too much trouble. But for now, it is amusing to watch the men fumble in her wake.

Florence watches her daughter with an expression of long-suffering patience. "Gwendolyn, do try to behave."

A shrug is the only response as the conversation drags on, an endless cycle of introductions and meaningless pleasantries. Some men linger too long, clearly unwilling to admit defeat, while others recognize the futility of their pursuit and make polite excuses to leave. One by one, they trickle out, until only a handful remain.

Vivienne, ever the strategist, takes note of who has made the best impression. It does not matter that Leah has no need for a husband, connections must still be maintained and opportunities kept open.

Lucius, silent for much of the morning, finally speaks. "It is amusing, is it not, how men will persist even when faced with impossibility?" his tone is dry, his expression unreadable. He has never cared much for Leah, but he is not blind to the power her success could wield.

Leah sets down her teacup with a soft clink. "Desperation makes fools of many."

A flicker of something, approval and amusement, crosses her father's face before he turns his attention elsewhere.

By the time the last caller departs, the room feels significantly lighter. The performance is over, at least for now.

Gwendolyn stretches languidly, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "Well, that was fun."

Smoothing the folds of her gown, Leah exhales. "That is one word for it."

Vivienne, ever composed, rises gracefully. "It was necessary. And you conducted yourself well enough."

Not exactly high praise, but Leah has never expected as much from her mother.

Florence offers a small smile. "It is only the beginning, after all. There will be many more days like this."

Leah does not doubt it. The season has only just begun and she must endure it, but at the very least, she knows where she stands. She is not here to secure a match. She already has one. This is all a game and she knows how to play it.

Gwendolyn, still smirking, nudges her playfully. "At least try to enjoy it, dear cousin. You are, after all, the envy of the season."

Leah tilts her head, lips curving into something not quite a smile. "Yes. How fortunate I am."

The drawing room is quieter now, save for the faint crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of conversation from elsewhere in the house. The scent of perfume and cigar smoke lingers, mingling with the faint floral notes of the fresh-cut bouquets arranged in crystal vases. A moment of peace, however brief.

Then, the doors open once more. A footman steps aside and Henry Moore, Duke of Aylesworth, strides into the room with measured ease. He is later than the others—so much later, in fact, that his presence now feels almost like an afterthought rather than an expected call. Yet he does not appear the least bit troubled by it.

"I do hope I am not interrupting," he remarks, his voice smooth and pleasant, laced with the faintest trace of amusement. His dark eyes sweep the room, taking in the absence of competition and the lingering atmosphere of polite exhaustion. "Though it seems I have missed quite the affair."

Leah, seated with an air of carefully composed poise, does not rise but tilts her head in acknowledgment. "It was, as you might imagine, a rather lively morning," her lips curve in a way that is neither smile nor smirk, something deliberately unreadable. "You are fortunate to have arrived now rather than earlier. I am quite certain the room was insufferable at its peak."

Now next to her, Gwendolyn, who has been watching the proceedings with barely restrained interest, lets out a quiet laugh. "You ought to be flattered, Your Grace," she says, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink. "You have the lady's company all to yourself."

Henry chuckles, the sound low and warm. "I shall take that as a privilege, then," he approaches with unhurried confidence, stopping just short of where Leah sits. The candlelight catches the sharp lines of his features, accentuating the easy amusement that lingers in his expression. "Though I do wonder, was the crowd truly so unbearable, or is that merely an excuse?"

Leah exhales, not quite a sigh, but something near enough. "An observation," she corrects. "Surely you understand, Your Grace. Too many voices in one space all speaking of the same dull things. The weather, the latest scandal, the Queen's favor. It grows rather tiresome."

"Ah." He inclines his head slightly, as if in agreement. "I cannot say I find myself much in disagreement. Though I imagine you bear it far more gracefully than I might."

Florence, who has been content to observe until now, chooses this moment to interject. "You give my niece too much credit, Your Grace," she says, her tone light but edged with something knowing. "She may be charming when required, but I suspect she shares your sentiments more than she lets on."

"I can be both charming and honest," Leah says without missing a beat. "They are not mutually exclusive, Aunt."

Smile deepening at that, Henry does not press the matter further. Instead, he finally settles into a seat opposite her, his posture impeccable and his presence commanding without effort. He does not fidget or glance about the room as lesser men might. He is comfortable in his own skin and silence. It is an uncommon thing and Leah finds it far from an unpleasant one.

"You must tell me, Your Grace," Gwendolyn says after a moment, eyes bright with curiosity. "Have you truly only just arrived in town? The ladies have spoken of little else but your presence at court. There were quite a few speculations as to whether you would even participate in the season."

Henry hums, glancing toward her with mild amusement. "I am afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Gwendolyn. There is nothing so mysterious about it. My affairs required my attention elsewhere until recently."

"How very responsible of you," Leah muses, studying him with interest. "I do not imagine many young gentlemen of your station would feel so inclined."

"Perhaps not," he allows, "but then, I have never been particularly inclined to idleness."

The conversation drifts, shifting seamlessly between topics—London, the season, the peculiarities of society. Henry is well-spoken without being ostentatious, his humor subtle but engaging. There is no undue flattery in his words, no empty pleasantries meant to charm, only easy and natural conversation. For Leah, it is a welcome change.

"You must think it all rather ridiculous," she says at one point, watching him over the rim of her teacup. "The way they speak of you. As if you are some grand prize to be won."

Henry exhales, a soft huff of laughter. "I have been called worse things, I imagine."

She raises a brow. "And better things, no doubt."

"On occasion," he concedes, "though I suspect none of it is particularly accurate."

Gwendolyn, who has been quietly entertained by the exchange, grins. "And what is accurate, then?"

Henry considers for a moment. "That," he says finally, "is for you to determine."

Leah regards him for a moment, then sets her cup aside, a slow smile pulling at her lips. "A dangerous thing to say, Your Grace. I am quite the critic."

"I shall endeavor to withstand your scrutiny, Miss Leah."

Florence, having listened with the sharp perception of an experienced matron, shifts in her seat. "I daresay you have managed well enough thus far, Your Grace. Not all gentlemen fare so well in my niece's company."

Leah casts her aunt a look, but there is no real heat behind it. "You make it sound as if I am intolerable."

"Not intolerable," Florence says, eyes glinting. "Simply.. particular."

Henry does not seem deterred in the slightest. If anything, he appears all the more amused. "A quality I can appreciate," he says easily.

Their gazes meet and something unspoken lingers between them. Not tension, not attraction, but understanding. A quiet acknowledgment that, for all the formalities and all the expectations that society places upon them, they are simply two individuals navigating it all as best they can.

The hour grows late, though none of them remark upon it just yet. The fire still burns, the conversation has not yet waned and for the moment, there is no rush to bring it to an end.

Sitting before the vanity, Leah's posture is languid, and her arm drapes across the table as she watches Anna unlace her corset with a patience Leah does not share. The maid's fingers are methodical and careful, every movement deliberate as she tugs at the ribbon binding Leah's waist.

The flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the room, illuminating the soft sheen of the lemon-yellow silk gown now slipping from her shoulders. The house has quieted considerably, the distant murmur of conversation from the drawing room long faded leaving only the crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the wooden floors beneath Anna's shifting feet.

"You are impossibly slow, Anna," complains Leah.

"I would be finished sooner if you sat still," Anna replies, voice as even as ever.

Leah exhales, letting her head tilt back, exposing the long column of her throat. Her hair which has been brushed loose spills over the back of the chair in waves. It has been an exhausting evening Her cheeks still ache faintly from forced smiles and her mind dull from the ceaseless prattle of men vying for her favor. Then, there was Henry Moore, lingering far longer than he should have, though she had not particularly minded his company. Her parents had noticed, of course, but they liked him so they held their tongues.

She is considering whether she ought to be grateful for that when the door swings open without so much as a knock. Thomas strides in as though he owns the place, utterly unbothered by the impropriety of his presence in her chambers while she is half-dressed. His usual grin plays at his lips, sharp and knowing, as he holds up two neatly folded letters between his gloved fingers. The wax seals gleam in the candlelight.

"Letters for you, My Lady," he announces, voice thick with amusement.

Anna stiffens, scandalized with her hands frozen mid-motion at Leah's back. Leah, however, merely lifts a brow. "You should not be here, Thomas."

"Yet, here I am," he says as he steps further inside. "Your reputation remains intact, I assure you. I will be in and out before anyone notices."

"You say that as though my reputation is of any concern to you."

"It is," he muses. "To a degree."

Leah rolls her eyes but extends a hand for the letters. Obliging, Thomas drops them into her palm with an exaggerated flourish before retreating a step.

One is from Daniel. She recognizes his handwriting immediately, bold and slightly messy, as though he had little patience to keep his letters neat. The other is from Ciel, her fingers brush over the elegant loops of ink, the careful strokes of a pen wielded with precision.

The seal cracks under the press of her letter opener. Anna, now finished with her work, adjusts the delicate lace of Leah's nightgown before quietly gathering the discarded gown from the floor. Thomas does not leave despite his earlier claim, watching her with the keen interest of a cat observing a cornered mouse. Leah ignores him.

The parchment is smooth beneath her fingertips as she unfolds the letter. The ink is bold, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of the writer's mind—his thoughts, his affections, all distilled into neat lines upon the page.

"Leah," it begins.

"Your brother would not cease his incessant prattling about your presentation. I had little choice but to endure every excruciating detail, though I suspect he exaggerated half of them. Still, I suppose I might admit to some interest, if only because the subject concerns you. You were, of course, well-received. Anything less would have been a failure on their part, not yours. Even Her Majesty seems to have found you acceptable. Congratulations, though I doubt you required her approval any more than you require mine."

She smirks, lips pressing together to suppress the flicker of amusement. Of course, Daniel had spoken of it incessantly. He has always been proud of her in his own way, even when their parents are not.

"I trust you carried yourself with the expected grace and dignity, though I doubt you would confess otherwise if you had not. London must be unbearable now, infested with every insipid bachelor eager to throw himself at your feet. How utterly tiresome for you. I imagine they trip over one another in their efforts to impress you, and yet, none of them matter. You humor them out of obligation, but it is a pointless endeavor. You and I both know as much."

A soft hum escapes her throat. Ciel has always been direct and unapologetic in his certainty that she belongs to him and no one else. Though there is still some jealousy in his words, no insecurity is shown. Only the quiet annoyance of knowing that there are other men that he cannot stop himself. She traces her thumb over the edge of the paper.

"I will assume you have not already forgotten me in favor of some ridiculous fop who fancies himself charming. If you have, I expect Sebastian will hear of it before I do and I would hate to have to rely on him for such information. Try not to keep me waiting too long for your next letter."

She can hardly control the smile that spreads across her face when her eyes drag over the words. The letter continues in much the same manner, touching briefly on matters at Weston—though nothing of real consequence. If there are difficulties, he does not speak of them and if he misses her, he certainly does not say so. But there is something in the way he writes and the effort he puts into telling her of the mundane, the every day, that suggests it all the same.

"Yours,

Ciel Phantomhive."

The warmth that spreads through her chest is unwelcome and irritating in its persistence as she lowers the letter to her lap with a deliberate slowness.

"Love letters at this hour?" Thomas drawls, arms crossed over his chest.

Leah lifts her gaze, unimpressed. "It is hardly a love letter."

"No?" he tilts his head, expression sly. "That is unfortunate."

The weight of the letter lingers in her hands, heavier than it ought to be. She is not foolish enough to read too much into it, Ciel is not the sentimental type. However, she cannot deny the way her heart stirs at his words and the knowledge that he is thinking of her, even from afar. She traces the edge of the folded parchment, thoughtful.

Somewhere in the distance, the clock strikes the hour. The night stretches ahead, quiet and still, and though the day has long since ended, Leah does not yet feel the pull of sleep.

Anna, now finished tidying, clears her throat, hesitant. "Shall I fetch you some tea before bed, my lady?"

Leah shakes her head. "No. I am not tired yet."

Thomas smirks as if to say 'Of course you are not.'

She does not give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Instead, she folds the letter with great care, putting it aside as she considers Ciel's words once more. The season stretches ahead of her, tiresome in its predictability, a game she must play but has no real stake in. Her success is inevitable, a mere formality. But, for all of London's whispered speculation, for all the suitors who will attempt to charm her, the outcome has already been decided.

She is Leah Barrett and she belongs to Ciel Phantomhive.

The crisp fold of Ciel's letter still lingers between Leah's fingers, the weight of his words settling into her mind like a stone sinking into still water. She had expected something composed, perfunctory—perhaps even a touch distant, given the nature of his work at Weston—but there was a warmth there, however reserved. Pride, too, though whether it stemmed from her presentation before the Queen or Daniel's endless crowing about it, she isn't certain. It does not matter.

She turns her attention to the second envelope. This one is heavier, its wax seal uneven as though pressed in a hurry and she knows at once that it will be full of nonsense. A sigh escapes her as she breaks the seal. Daniel writes in a hand both careless and bold, the ink smudged in places where his enthusiasm has outpaced his patience. The opening lines confirm her expectations at once.

"Leah, you insufferable creature—"

She exhales sharply, something like a laugh catching at the edges of it. Already, she can picture the self-satisfied smirk he must have worn while scrawling it down, no doubt reveling in whatever grievance he has conjured to pester her with this time.

"I am utterly convinced that you orchestrated my suffering from the moment I set foot back at Weston. It is the only explanation. Not a day has passed without some fresh torment befalling me and I lay each and every one of them at your feet. Do you recall that imbecile, Waverly, whom I have been saddled with for a roommate? I swear on all that is holy, he chews like an ox and snores like one too. If I am to perish within these hallowed halls, know that it was not the rigors of academia that felled me, nor the depravity of my peers, but this single, abhorrent creature depriving me of my rest."

Leah presses her knuckles to her mouth, shoulders trembling with silent laughter. She can all but hear the indignant drawl in his voice and the dramatic emphasis on every other word.

"Of course, it is not simply Waverly conspiring against me. No, the entire student body seems hell-bent on making my life miserable. Did I tell you that I was nearly trampled on the way to Latin? The students here have no sense of decorum and no concept of personal space! I was barely upright before another horde came barreling through. It is a miracle I am alive to write this letter at all."

There is a pause as she shifts, the silk of her nightgown cool against her skin. Anna, who has remained dutifully silent throughout her reading, busies herself with folding Leah's discarded garments from earlier in the evening. The room is quiet save for the occasional crackle of the hearth and the scratch of parchment beneath Leah's fingertips.

"On the subject of miracles, it appears your dear Phantomhive has managed to retain his reputation as an unapproachable specter. There was some commotion last week regarding his dormitory. No one knows precisely what happened, but the rumors are delightfully absurd. One boy swears he saw a man lurking about and another claims to have heard voices speaking in some unknown tongue. If I had to guess, I would say Ciel is merely being his usual, secretive self, but I admit, it is amusing to watch them work themselves into a frenzy over it."

Leah's lips quirk. 'That sounds like Ciel.' The rumors surrounding him have always bordered on the ridiculous—half-truths and exaggerations that he does nothing to correct. It suits him to be seen as unknowable, just as it suits him to remain a step removed from the rest of them.

"But enough of that. Tell me about your debut. I expect the Barrett name to be spoken in nothing less than awed whispers by now. Did any poor soul make the mistake of attempting to outshine you? I imagine it was a rather short-lived endeavor if so. And what of our dear parents? Were they tolerable, or did Father find some fresh way to humiliate us in polite company? You must tell me everything, Leah, or I shall be forced to resort to secondhand accounts and we both know how dreadful that would be."

The amusement in his words is unmistakable, but beneath it, there is something else. A genuine interest, perhaps even a measure of concern. The smile lingering on her lips softens. Daniel may be a perpetual nuisance, but he is still her brother and in his own way, he cares. More than their parents, certainly.

She taps her fingers against the parchment, considering how best to respond. There is much to tell—her first ball of the season, the endless parade of suitors, the way Florence had watched her like a hawk the entire evening as though waiting for her to slip. Some part of her wants to downplay it, to brush it all aside as tedious, but she knows Daniel would not be satisfied with that.

"Shall I bring the writing set, Mistress?" Anna's voice is gentle and expectant.

Leah blinks, glancing up as if only now recalling the maid's presence. For a moment, she considers answering, but instead, she folds the letter neatly and sets it aside.

"Not yet," she says, voice quiet but firm.

There is no rush. 'Daniel can wait.' Anna nods, saying nothing more as she continues tidying the room.

Leaning back slightly, Leah's gaze drifts toward the window. The night beyond is dark and still, the distant glow of lanterns lining the streets below offering little in the way of warmth. Her mind wanders. To Daniel, to Ciel, to the weeks ahead. The season has only just begun and she already feels as though she has been doing this for months.

Without another word, she stands from her seat, grabs Ciel's letter, and makes her way over to her bed, dropping herself down dramatically. The firelight casts flickering shadows across the silk-draped walls of Leah's bedroom, the glow softened by the gauzy canopy that drapes over her grand bed. The scent of lavender lingers in the air, courtesy of the sachets Anna placed beneath her pillows earlier in the evening. It is late enough that the house has settled into silence but not so late that Leah feels particularly inclined to sleep.

Now, she sits atop the plush bedding with her legs tucked beneath her, running her fingers over the edges of Ciel's letter for the third time. The paper is crisp despite how often she's opened it to read small sections again, her touch always careful. She takes comfort in the weight of it, as though holding it alone is enough to remind her of the certainty of her engagement.

Anna moves about the room with quiet efficiency, straightening things that need no straightening and smoothing out the fabric of Leah's unused dressing gown draped over the vanity chair. She has already braided Leah's hair for the night, the plait falling over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon that matches her nightgown. When she passes the bed, she pauses, glancing down at the letter in Leah's hands.

"You will wrinkle it if you keep handling it so," she says with a mild voice.

Leah doesn't look up. "I won't."

"Then at least put it aside. If you are not going to sleep, you should rest your eyes."

The suggestion is met with a soft sigh, but Leah does as she is told, placing the letter atop her bedside table. She leans back against the pillows, arms loosely crossed, watching as Anna moves to blow out one of the candles.

From his place by the hearth, Thomas watches the exchange with a look of passive amusement. The demon is leaning against the mantel, arms folded, perfectly at ease in a position that would earn any ordinary servant a reprimand. But Thomas is no ordinary servant and Leah does not bother correcting him.

"I suppose it is a relief that your affections are not so easily swayed," he remarks, a trace of mockery in his voice. "It would be terribly dull to go through all this fuss only for you to set your sights elsewhere before the season's end."

Leah turns her head just enough to glare at him. "Do not be stupid."

"That is not an answer," Thomas gives an insufferable smirk.

Anna cuts in before Leah can retort, her tone as level as always. "You do speak nonsense, Thomas. The Mistress' engagement has been set for some time. There is no reason to suggest she would entertain another match."

The words are spoken plainly, but there is a firmness to them that makes Thomas' smirk widen. "Of course. I am merely making conversation."

"You are being insufferable," Leah mutters, shifting onto her side.

"Am I?" he tilts his head, pretending to consider. "Then allow me to be of some use. Shall I read you a story before bed? A fable, perhaps? Or one of those dreadful French romances you pretend not to like?"

Anna exhales through her nose, unimpressed. "The Mistress is not a child."

"I think she would rather suffer my storytelling than listen to you nag her about sleeping."

Leah presses her fingers to her temple. "Both of you are unbearable."

For all her irritation, the familiarity of their bickering soothes her more than she is willing to admit. It is easier to let Thomas' teasing roll off her shoulders when she knows there is no true malice in it. Anna's presence, as steady as ever, is its own comfort. She has never had to worry about hiding her moods from either of them nor has she ever needed to measure her words with caution the way she must with her parents.

The thought reminds her of the dinner earlier in the evening, the way her father's mood had been mercurial at best and her mother's attention drifting everywhere but her. Even Daniel's letter, however affectionate, carries the weight of their family's expectations. It is only here, in the quiet of her room, that she can allow herself to feel tired.

Anna adjusts the blankets around her without a word, smoothing the silk as though Leah is much younger than she is. Though she would normally protest, she does not tonight, merely shifting slightly beneath the covers.

"You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow," Anna reminds her. "It would do you well to sleep."

"I know."

"You will want to be at your best. Your gown is already prepared."

Leah huffs a soft laugh. "You say that as though I have not seen it."

Anna does not dignify that with a response, simply reaching for the last candle by the bedside. Before she can put it out, Leah catches her wrist, pausing her movement.

There is a hesitation in the way she speaks next, her voice quieter. "Stay for a little while."

Anna blinks, clearly not expecting the request. Leah is not the sort to ask for company. If anything, she usually prefers to be left alone once her nightly routine is done, but there is a subtle vulnerability in her expression that makes refusal impossible.

"If you like," Anna says simply, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.

Thomas watches them with vague interest before making his own decision. Rather than taking his leave, he moves to sit in the chair nearest the bed, one leg casually crossed over the other. "Since we are all indulging sentimentality this evening, I may as well join."

Leah groans. "Must you?"

"I think I must."

She does not argue, only sighs as she sinks further into the pillows. Anna sits in composed silence, hands folded neatly in her lap while Thomas lounges in a way that is just short of disrespectful. It is an odd scene, given their respective roles, but there is an easy familiarity between them that does not require explanation.

For a while, they say nothing. The fire crackles, the candle flickers, and Leah listens to the quiet sounds of the house settling around them. When she speaks again, her voice is softer and less sharp than before.

"This season will be dreadful, won't it?" she whispers.

Anna smooths a crease in her skirt. "It will be as dreadful as you make it."

Thomas smirks. "So, quite dreadful, then."

Leah glares at him half-heartedly. "I ought to have you dismissed."

"You won't."

She exhales, eyes drifting half-shut.

"No, I suppose not."