"They're stupid."
Claudia folded her hands. "That's unfortunate."
"Why?"
"You still have to learn them."
Baron sighed dramatically. "You aren't supposed to be amusing."
"I wasn't aware that governesses had regulations regarding humor."
"You don't act like the others."
"No."
"Why?"
She looked thoughtful. "Because I'm Claudia."
The boy blinked. "That's a terrible answer."
"It's the only one I possess."
For several moments, Baron stared. Then he laughed. Not loudly, not freely, more like surprise escaping through cracked walls. He immediately stopped, as though uncertain he was allowed. Claudia continued sorting papers. She pretended not to notice. Because joy frightened grieving people almost as much as sorrow. If acknowledged too quickly, they feared it would vanish.
"You heard that?"
"Heard what? You know, I'm afraid my hearing isn't what it once was."
Baron narrowed his eyes, then very carefully, laughed again.
At precisely eleven o'clock, Alden Veramont arrived. He entered Ashborne Hall like sunshine invading a cathedral. All easy smiles and effortless charm; tall, elegant, dangerously observant. The oldest friend Prince Wolfrick possessed, which wasn't saying much.
"You look dreadful," Alden announced cheerfully.
Wolfrick glanced up from his correspondence. "You've said that every time you've visited, and one day you'll appreciate my consistency."
Alden settled into the armchair opposite. "I hear rumors. How unfortunate. The boy hasn't terrified anyone recently."
Wolfrick continued reading. Silence stretched.
"Then you hired another governess."
"Yes. And she remains employed."
Alden lowered his teacup. "What?"
"Miss Rosetta appears competent."
"You've had competent."
"True."
"You've had patient."
"Also true."
"You've had terrifying French women with military discipline." A pause. "They lasted six days."
Wolfrick folded his letter. "Miss Rosetta has lasted eight."
Alden blinked, then laughed outright. "My dear Wolfrick!"
"What?"
"You sound impressed."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
Wolfrick's expression remained impassive, but Alden had known him since boyhood. He recognized discomfort disguised as indifference. "Tell me about her."
"She's practical. Calm. Observant."
Alden smiled. "You've noticed."
Wolfrick's jaw tightened. "I notice everyone."
"No," Alden leaned forward. "You evaluate everyone." A meaningful pause. "Not the same thing."
---
That afternoon, Claudia discovered Baron hiding beneath the library desk.
"Master Baron."
Silence.
"Baron."
"I dislike visitors."
She crouched carefully. A pair of blue eyes glared from the shadows. "They stare."
"Yes."
"They ask questions."
"Yes."
"They compare me."
Claudia sat cross-legged upon the carpet. "They probably do."
He blinked. "You aren't disagreeing."
"Would it help?"
"No."
"Then honesty seems more efficient."
Baron studied her. "They think something's wrong with me. Do you?"
He hesitated, long enough to matter. "Sometimes." The answer settled heavily between them. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've been very sad for a very long time."
"That's not the same."
"No," Claudia nodded. "It isn't."
He looked away. "Everyone wants me fixed." The words emerged quietly. "They don't ask what hurts."
Something inside Claudia's heart cracked. She understood then. Baron hadn't driven people away because he enjoyed cruelty. He'd driven them away because becoming unlovable hurt less than being abandoned. If everyone eventually left, better to control when they went.
"May I tell you something?"
He shrugged.
"When I was sixteen," she paused, "the man I intended to marry died."
Baron stared. "You almost married?"
"Very nearly."
"What happened?"
"He became ill."
Silence.
"Were you sad?"
"Terribly."
"Did it stop?"
"No."
Baron's eyes widened. "No?"
"The grief changed into... something quieter."
He considered this. "You still miss him?"