The cough had been worse today. Though I had managed the hours well enough—reading by the fire, tending to my embroidery—the climb up the grand staircase of Blackwood Manor had left me breathless, my chest tight with that familiar, insistent ache. Still, the day had been kind; the autumn sun had spilled through the windows in golden pools, and for a few precious hours, I had almost forgotten the weight of my own fragile lungs.

The clock struck midnight, its sonorous chimes measured and solemn, each note reverberating through the silent house like a judge’s gavel. Ding. Ding. Ding. I counted them absently, my fingers pausing over the pages of my prayer book, the candlelight flickering as if in sympathy with my trembling hands.Cicely, my love. The voice, rich as aged brandy and soft as velvet, came from the open window—where he perched, as he always did when the world grew too heavy. Moonlight traced the sharp angles of his face, his amber eyes glowing faintly beneath the brim of his hat. How do you fare this evening? And just like that, the pain mattered less, for Thaddeus had come to steal the night away from sorrow once more.