He descended the staircase, one measured step at a time, until he stood before her. Smaller than expected, fiercer. His blue eyes searched hers, not challenging, searching, as though waiting to uncover the flaw that would send her running. 

Claudia knelt, ignoring the startled inhalation from somewhere behind her. "Good afternoon." 

"You won't last." 

"Perhaps." 

"They cry. Do they?" 

"They hate me." 

Claudia tilted her head. "Do you hate them?" 

The question seemed to surprise him. A flicker, gone almost instantly. Baron considered. "Then they leave." 

"Yes." 

"You'll leave, too." 

The hall held its breath. Footmen watched. The Duke watched. Portraits seemed to watch. Baron's voice lowered. "You won't last until supper." 

Then he smiled. Small, beautiful, terrifying, because it wasn't the smile of a happy child. It was the smile of someone absolutely certain he understood how the story ended. 

Claudia rose slowly, smoothed her gloves, then looked directly at him. "I suppose," she said quietly, "we shall have to make supper very interesting." 

For the first time, the impossible heir looked uncertain. Only for a heartbeat, only a flicker. But Prince Wolfrick Ashborne saw it, and so did Claudia Rosetta. Neither of them yet understood that Ashborne Hall had just witnessed the beginning of its undoing. Because hidden beneath polished floors and aristocratic manners, grief had been quietly poisoning an ancient house. And somewhere inside that frightened little boy was a secret powerful enough to destroy everything his family had built—or save it.

---

Morning arrived at Ashborne Hall wrapped in silver mist. Outside, frost clung stubbornly to the gardens. Inside, servants moved with unusual tension. Footsteps softened, voices lowered. Even the clinking of china seemed cautious, as though the estate itself had learned not to provoke its youngest master. 

Claudia Rosetta stood before the mirror in her modest chamber, fastening the final button of her dark blue dress. She had slept surprisingly well. Not because she underestimated Baron Ashborne. Quite the opposite, she had learned long ago that difficult children rarely frightened her. Adults, perhaps. Children who had learned to weaponize their pain—those she understood. 

A knock sounded. "Miss Rosetta?" 

"Come in." 

A young maid entered carrying a breakfast tray. The poor girl looked nervous. "His Grace requested that you dine before beginning lessons." 

"Thank you." 

The maid hesitated. "You should know..." 

"Yes?" 

The girl twisted her apron. "Master Baron pushed the last governess into the fountain." 

Claudia blinked. "Was she injured?" 

"No." 

"Then perhaps she needed cooling off." 

The maid stared. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It escaped before she could stop it. Horrified, she covered her mouth. "I'm sorry." 

Claudia smiled gently. "It's quite all right." 

The maid hurried out, still looking bewildered, as though she'd just witnessed someone strolling toward execution with pleasant enthusiasm. 

Breakfast passed in silence. The Duke occupied one end of the vast dining table. Claudia sat several chairs away, enough distance to remind everyone of their stations. Sunlight streamed through towering windows. Silver gleamed. Tea steamed. 

Prince Wolfrick folded his newspaper. "He has requested you." 

Claudia looked up. "Requested?" 

A slight pause. "He specifically asked when lessons would begin." 

"Interesting. And what did you tell him?" 

"That was your decision." 

Claudia lifted her teacup. "I suppose I should avoid disappointing him." 

Something dangerously close to amusement flickered across the Duke's face, then vanished. "He enjoys disappointment." 

"No." Claudia set down her cup. "He expects it." 

Silence. The Duke regarded her carefully. "You've known him less than five minutes." 

"I have known grief considerably longer." 

For several seconds, neither moved. Then a footman appeared. 

"Master Baron is waiting in the schoolroom." 

"Thank you." Claudia rose, smoothed invisible wrinkles from her sleeves, and walked toward battle. 

The schoolroom looked perfectly ordinary. Shelves lined with books, maps, slates, mathematical instruments, a piano tucked quietly near the windows. The sort of room designed for order. Baron sat at the desk, hands folded, impeccably dressed, watching her. 

"Good morning." 

"You came." 

"You sound surprised." 

"You shouldn't have." 

Claudia removed her gloves. "Shouldn't I?" 

"They all regretted it." He tilted his head. "You still can." 

"Can what?" 

"Leave." 

Claudia arranged books upon the desk. "No." 

"Why not?" 

"You haven't given me a reason." 

Baron's eyes narrowed. Then he swept every book onto the floor. The crash echoed. Ink spilled. Pages scattered. Silence followed. The boy stared at her, waiting, testing. 

Claudia glanced downward, then bent gracefully and began gathering books. No scolding, no outrage, nothing. 

"You aren't angry?" 

"No." 

"You should be." 

"Why?" 

"I ruined everything." 

"You ruined organization." She stacked books neatly. "Hardly the same thing." 

His brows furrowed. "I did it on purpose." 

"Yes." 

"You don't care." 

"I care very much." She righted an overturned inkpot. "But I suspect the books aren't the problem." 

Baron's expression shuddered. "You're wrong." 

"Possibly." 

"You think you understand everything?" 

"No." Claudia met his gaze. "I simply think people often shout about one thing when they're hurting over another." 

Something flashed behind his eyes. Gone instantly. "You're strange." 

"I've been called worse." 

He looked disappointed. "You aren't supposed to say that." 

"What should I say?" 

"You should punish me." 

"Would you like punishment?" 

"No." 

"Then perhaps we shouldn't waste time."