Three days earlier.
The boy's mother was still shouting when Aurelius was led from the headmaster's office.
"…a disgrace to strike another student—"
"—and where did he even learn to do that?"
Lady Calloway didn't respond. She simply placed a hand on her son's shoulder and guided him out of the building, her silence colder than any lecture.
Only when they reached the outer steps did she speak.
"Tell me why."
He looked ahead. "He humiliated a girl. She didn't fight back."
His mother studied him, her expression unreadable. "And you did?"
Aurelius hesitated. "Yes."
She said nothing for a long time. Then finally—softly—she murmured,
"Then I'm proud. But next time, use your words, Aurelius. Violence may be honest, but it is rarely wise."
He gave a faint nod.
They walked to the carriage in silence. But something in him still burned—not from shame or punishment.
From the memory of Desdemona's face. And how no one else had stepped in.
The days drifted slowly, soaked in the pale golden wash of autumn. Halebourne's wind carried whispers—of stories unfinished, of children's laughter, and of names spoken softly under one's breath.
Aurelius had not seen her since the incident on the lawn.
Not in the Gathering Room. Not by the arches. Not even lingering at the edge of the library where the sun poured in through stained glass like melted jewels.
He looked, always.
And never found her.
But it was her absence from Delphine's school that troubled him first.
"Where's Miss Desdemona?" he asked after the third empty visit.
Delphine only shrugged, toying with the lace on her collar. "She hasn't come in a while. Her brother's sad about it."
That caught him.
"Her brother?"
"He's little. They walk home together sometimes," she said. "He was crying again today."
It was several afternoons later, under a sky streaked with the warm blush of dusk, that he found the boy.
He was standing beneath the great walnut tree, eyes round and rimmed with tears, holding tightly to Delphine's hand.
"She forgot again," the boy murmured, his voice quivering. "She said she wouldn't, but she did…"
Delphine whispered something to him, soothing and small, but it did little to ease him.
Aurelius stepped forward. "Do you know your way home?"
The boy sniffled and nodded. "It's a short walk. I can show you."
He hesitated—then offered his hand.
"Lead the way, young sir."
The child's grip was warm, smaller than his own but certain. Delphine followed closely, her braid bouncing with every step.
They passed hedgerows and shuttered shops, a cobbler's window glowing faintly as lamplight lit the corners of stone paths. As they turned onto a quiet lane where wisteria hung from timber porches, the boy pointed.
"That one."
It was a modest cottage, ivy-clad and crooked with age. Flowering pots lined the steps. A cracked bell hung by the door, but before Aurelius could reach it, the door opened.
And there she was.
Desdemona.
Her hair was gathered loosely at her neck, face flushed as if she had run from another room.
"Milo!" she cried, rushing forward to scoop the boy into her arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"I wasn't scared," he said bravely, though tears glimmered at the corners of his lashes. "He brought me."
Des looked up—and saw him.
And in the twilight, for a moment, she didn't move.
"Aurelius," she whispered.
He offered a slight bow. "Miss Desdemona."
Behind her, a woman stepped into view—older, with kind eyes and laugh lines carved deep from years of joy and sorrow alike. Her apron was dusted with flour, and her hands were calloused from baking.
"You must be the gentleman who brought our children home. I was just about to go looking for them."
"It was no trouble at all," he replied.
She smiled, brushing her palms against her skirt. "Won't you stay for dinner? As thanks?"
Des looked horrified, but her mother was already ushering him inside.
The warmth of the house was unlike any he'd known. It smelled of cardamom and honey and rosemary stew. The walls were papered with hand-stitched florals, and books were everywhere—stacked on windowsills, piled on chairs, tucked behind candlesticks like shy guests.
He sat at the worn oak table while Des and her mother prepared the meal. She moved quickly, quietly, always half-turned away from him, cheeks pink whenever he looked her way.
Milo sat on his lap, chatting freely about absolutely everything.
"My sister reads all the time," he boasted between bites of bread. "Even when it's dark. Mama says her eyes will go funny."
Des turned from the counter just enough to chime in, "Only because the stories don't wait until morning."
Her mother chuckled. "That girl has read more pages than I've seen days. She can barely fall asleep without a book pressed to her chest."
Aurelius smiled softly, his gaze drifting to her.
"A rare and wonderful ailment," he said.
Des said nothing—but her hands stilled for a moment as if the compliment had folded itself somewhere deep inside her.
When the meal was done, he thanked them graciously and rose to leave. Des followed him to the door, Milo now asleep in her arms.
She spoke before he could.
"I'm sorry… about school. I didn't mean to vanish. I just… needed air. And silence."
"I understand," he said.
"I didn't expect you to help me."
"Neither did I."
A pause. Wind brushed through the ivy.
She held her brother closer. "Thank you."
He nodded, then stepped into the cool night, the scent of stew and cinnamon clinging faintly to his coat.
The next morning, Desdemona returned to Halebourne. She did not move through the halls like a girl determined to reclaim her place—she simply walked, spine straight, head bowed, hair catching the sunlight like strands of fire.
And by some unspoken gravity, Aurelius found her again.
"Miss Desdemona," he said as they crossed paths near the archway.
She glanced up, blinking, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. "Mister Calloway."
"I believe we are beyond formalities," he said, matching her pace.
"Friends then?"
He looked sideways at her, expression warm. "A fine word."
They walked, saying little. The silence between them was no longer a chasm—it was a bridge.
As they turned the corner toward their separate halls, Des looked up at him.
"You're quite different from what I imagined," she said.
He looked at her, curious. "And what did you imagine?"
She hesitated, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Someone colder, maybe. Distant. Like most people with a famous name."
He smiled faintly, then looked down. "I used to be… a little like that."
Her gaze lingered on him, warm and wondering.
"But things change," he added quietly.
She nodded. "They do."
And for a brief moment, neither of them spoke. But the silence was not empty.
It held something new. Something quietly beginning.