I rubbed my wrist. "Yes, my lord."
Lady Portia stepped close; her perfume smelled of violets and something bitter. "And Clara... His Grace cannot protect what he cannot hear."
I lowered my eyes. Inside my own mind, I thought: Oh, my lady, you have no idea how much that man hears with his eyes.
I reported everything to Sebastian in the conservatory at dusk. He chose the conservatory because soundless rain on glass calmed him; I chose a position facing him clearly because I had learned not to waste either of us in shadows.
He read my lips while I spoke, and when my words came too fast, he lifted two fingers and I slowed down. When I reached the part about the glasshouse, his face lost color.
I looked at Sebastian. "You knew."
Sebastian shook his head once. "Suspected."
I whispered, "Why would they arrange it?"
He wrote on the slate, though we were alone; sometimes written words steadied him when spoken ones cut too close: My father planned to cut Edmund's allowance and expose Portia's forged charity accounts. I was to meet Father in the glasshouse that night. The blast happened first.
I read the chalk marks and felt cold move through me. Sebastian wrote the answer slowly: They meant to kill you both.
Sebastian wiped the slate clean with one hard motion: They killed my hearing instead, and learned how useful a living silence could be.
I sat opposite him, suddenly furious. "You have let them stand beside you for six years!"
Sebastian wrote: To find proof.
I snapped: "Proof can go hang itself if it costs six years of your life!"
His eyes widened. I realized I had raised my voice, which was useless and somehow satisfying.
Sebastian leaned back, studying me. You are angry.
I gave him a look. "An excellent reading of the lips, Your Grace."
Sebastian pointed at the slate: For me?
I rolled my eyes. "No, for the hat! Of course for you!"
His expression shifted in a way I did not understand. People are usually angry at me, Sebastian wrote.
"Then people have terrible aim."
He looked down at his hands. For once, I did not feel the silence. That was new for me: I liked words; words were tools, shields, spoons, candles, and sometimes thrown shoes. But his silence was not empty; it had weight. I let it sit between us until he looked up again.
Sebastian noticed my hand: Your wrist.
I hid it in my apron. "It is nothing."
He held out his hand. I hesitated, then gave him my wrist. His gloved fingers touched the red marks with such careful restraint that my breath tangled. His jaw tightened.
"Not nothing."