Though Thomas was fully healed, he remained at the manor.
He woke each morning in a narrow bed beneath a window tall enough to shame the sky. The curtains were a pale, thoughtful blue, and when the sun pressed through them it did so gently, as though afraid of waking him too quickly. For the first few days he lay still after opening his eyes, waiting for the sting—some reminder of pain, or hunger, or the sharp command of a voice that did not care whether he was ready. But none came. The silence held. Eventually, he learned to rise without bracing himself.
At breakfast he was given a place at the table. At first it felt like theater—an elaborate jest he might be punished for failing to understand. But he endured. Until it became normal.
The table was long and polished to a soft gleam, already laid when he entered, steam curling from covered dishes like ghosts being coaxed into daylight. Eliza sat opposite him, swinging her feet beneath the chair, already cutting her bread with the confidence of someone who had never once wondered whether she was allowed to eat. She spoke to him as though this arrangement were not new, as though he had always been there, and he found himself answering in kind.
He learned the rhythm of meals quickly. When to speak. When to listen. How to watch the others for cues. Eliza's father dined with them when it pleased him, drifting in with the distracted air of a man who regarded domestic life as one would pleasant weather—something to be enjoyed in passing without ever once questioning the tremendous forces behind its creation. He asked Thomas idle questions and seemed satisfied with whatever answers were given, nodding as though the boy's presence were proof enough of some greater benevolence in the world.
After breakfast came lessons.
Eliza's governess, Miss Carter—a young woman with careful hair and a voice trained to smooth rough edges—conducted them in a sitting room that smelled faintly of ink and old wood.
Thomas had not expected to be included. He lingered at first near the doorway, uncertain whether his presence was a tolerated error or an unspoken invitation. Eliza solved this by taking his hand and pulling him into a chair beside her, as though claiming an object she had misplaced.
Reading followed. Then writing. Then numbers, which Thomas found he enjoyed more. The governess adjusted without comment, setting an extra slate before him, asking him to read aloud whenever Eliza seemed to have grown bored of hearing her own voice. Sometimes Eliza corrected him sharply, delighting in the opportunity; sometimes she leaned close and whispered the answer before he could falter. Both acts seemed equally generous to her.
When lessons ended, the house loosened its stays.
Eliza invented games with the seriousness of a general planning war. Hide-and-seek that stretched through corridors and unused parlors, where dust lay thick enough to record footprints like evidence. Board games with rules that shifted if it amused her. Once, she insisted they play at being explorers, mapping the grounds with chalk marks and imaginary dangers. Thomas followed her gladly, running until his lungs burned, laughing when she laughed, marveling at the way joy could arrive without warning and stay without payment.
He slept deeply at night.
The old pains in his body faded to memory.
His dreams softened. When he woke from them, it was not with a start, but with a strange, almost guilty sense of peace, as though he had been given something he had not earned and feared it might be reclaimed if he acknowledged it too loudly.
Days passed. Then more days.
The manor folded him into its habits. Servants greeted him by name. A coat appeared in his room without explanation. Someone mended his shoes. Someone else noticed when he favored one book over another and placed a similar volume on his bedside table, as though anticipating him.
And through it all, Eliza watched him. If ever they were any span apart she watched him with a quiet paranoia of ownership, like an infant watching a favorite toy that has momentarily slipped from reach. Likewise when he was near, she seemed calmer. When he was not, she grew restless, her attention sharpening and questions growing more exact.
Thomas noticed none of this.
He thought only that he had been lucky.
He thought, perhaps, that this was what it meant to be chosen. Even to be loved.
It happened after the lesson had ended.
Eliza had been dismissed with a kiss to the crown of her head and a reminder to wash her hands before luncheon. She obeyed at once, which alone felt noteworthy, and departed with a last look over her shoulder—quick, appraising—before the door shut softly behind her.
Thomas lingered to gather the slates.
He did so with the methodical care of a boy accustomed to making himself useful, stacking them neatly, wiping chalk dust from the table with his sleeve. The governess watched him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, her hands folded at her waist, her expression unreadable.
"You needn't do that," she said at last.
He startled slightly and flushed. "I don't mind, miss."
She moved to the window and adjusted the curtain by a fraction, as though the light had grown impertinent. When she spoke again, her voice was composed, but something in it had shifted—thinned, perhaps, or sharpened.
"You have settled here very quickly," she said.
Thomas shrugged, uncertain whether this was praise or observation. "Everyone's been kind."
"Yes," she replied. "They have."
Another silence. It stretched—not awkwardly, but deliberately, like a bridge being tested for weight.
"You are good for her," the governess said then.
He looked up. "For Eliza?"
She nodded once. "She is… more at ease, when you are near."
Thomas considered this, pride blooming shyly in his chest.
"She's fun," he said. "She knows lots of things."
A faint smile touched the governess's mouth.
It did not last.
"She knows many things," she agreed. "Some, I should think, rather prematurely."
"What do you mean?"
She crossed the room and began arranging the books, aligning their spines with unnecessary precision. "There are children," she continued, "who push against the world because they wish to understand it. And others who do so because they wish to see where it gives way."
Thomas frowned, uncertain. "I think she just likes to ask questions."
"Yes." The governess chuckled softly. "She does."
Then her hands stilled. For a moment she seemed to weigh something invisible, then exhaled—quietly, as though afraid the sound might carry.
"She once asked me," she said, not looking at him, "what would happen if a person were to behave impeccably, yet cause harm all the same. Whether intent mattered more than outcome. Whether one might be blameless in the eyes of God and still ruin someone's life."
Thomas swallowed. "What did you say?"
"I told her that kindness was its own measure," she replied. "That to hurt another was wrong, regardless of the elegance with which one did it."
"And?"
"And she thanked me."
A pause.
"Then she asked whether that rule applied equally to everyone."
The room seemed very still.
"I don't think she means any harm," Thomas said quickly, instinctively.
The governess turned to him then, and her gaze softened—truly softened, like ice melting in water. "Oh, I don't think she does either," she said. "That is precisely what troubles me." She stepped closer, lowering her voice though there was no one to hear. "You make her gentler," she said. "You give her something to care for that is not herself. And for that, I am grateful."
Her smile returned, practiced but sincere enough.
"I had begun to fear," she added, "that she was growing past me."
The door cracked a moment later.
Footsteps sounded in the hall—light, unhurried.
The governess straightened at once, her confession already folded away, the expression she bore composed as if it had never been otherwise.
A day later, Eliza brought it up as though it were an afterthought.
She and Thomas were in the corridor outside the schoolroom, having just completed their lesson for the day, Miss Carter's gentle hum drifting faintly through the door as she was putting away books.
Eliza stood with her hands folded behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels.
"Thomas," she said. "Do you like cats?"
He smiled. "Yes. I think so."
"Miss Carter has one," Eliza continued. "Have you seen it?"
He had. A great, ridiculous thing—cream-colored and long-haired, forever sprawled in patches of sun as though melted there. It tolerated affection with aristocratic patience.
"He's very friendly," Thomas said.
"Yes," Eliza agreed. "And terribly spoiled."
She glanced toward the door, then leaned closer.
"I want to give it a treat," she said. "A special one."
Thomas hesitated only because he was surprised. "A special treat?"
Eliza's mouth curved into something like a smile, but not quite. "Because it's meant to be a surprise, you mustn't tell anyone," she said lightly. "Or you'll ruin it."
She reached into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a small paper parcel, neatly folded, tied with thread. It looked harmless. Domestic. The sort of thing that might contain sugar or herbs or crumbs scoured from the kitchen.
Thomas felt that now-familiar warmth bloom in his chest.
"When?" he asked.
"Tonight," she said. "After supper."
Placing the parcel in his hand, her fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary.
"I knew I could count on you."
The sound of what transpired after carried.
Miss Carter's cry cut through the manor just after dawn—sharp, animal, wholly unbecoming of a young woman trained in etiquette.
Doors opened. Footsteps followed. Someone gasped.
Thomas stood frozen in the corridor as servants hurried past him. When he reached the schoolroom, Miss Carter was on her knees, skirts pooled around her, the cat limp in her arms. Its great body looked suddenly wrong—too still, too heavy. Its fur, once warm and absurd, had lost its shine.
"Oh," she said, again and again. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no—"
Thomas's stomach twisted in horror.
He had not expected this.
He had expected… something else.
A pleased cat, smiles all around. His task complete.
Miss Carter looked up at him then, eyes red, face blotched with grief.
She read something in his wide eyes.
"Thomas," she said hoarsely. "You were here last night, weren't you?"
He could not will himself to speak.
"Did you give him something?" she asked. Not accusing. Not yet. Just desperate. "Did he eat something he shouldn't have?"
Fretting, his mouth opened.
And he closed it.
The silence did what no lie could.
Miss Carter stared at him. Understanding came quickly—too quickly.
It stole the breath from her.
"Oh," she whispered, face darkening in defeat.
She did not ask again.
Miss Carter left before the week was out.
Officially, it was due to illness.
Unofficially, no one said anything at all.
Thomas watched her carriage go from an upstairs window.
Eliza was beside him, hands folded neatly.
She tilted her head. "Poor Miss Carter."
Thomas turned to her, stricken. "Her cat—something was wrong with it. Do you know what happened?"
"Did you do exactly as I asked?"
"Yes! I fed him the special treat and he ate it all up."
"Good," she said. Then, lightly: "Maybe it's because you fed him too late." She tutted. "You know, cats aren't supposed to eat after a certain time of night."
Thomas wiped away tears from his eyes.
He sniffed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Eliza stood and wrapped him in her arms. "I suppose I thought you knew."
"Is it really my fault?"
Eliza giggled. It was a small, tinny sound.
"Who can say," she said. "That poor silly, fat cat."
Afterward she shrugged—already bored—and moved away from the window.
"Come on," she added. "Lessons will be different now. Daddy has hired a new governess from France. France! I simply cannot wait to meet her. I wonder if she's pretty."
† † †
The vicar did not speak at once.
The storm outside the church had softened to a steady, sullen rain drained of its previous rage. Water crept down the stained glass in thin, wavering lines, distorting the saints into shapes that defined human comprehension.
At last, he drew a breath.
"A child," he said slowly. "She was only a child."
Thomas sat opposite him, hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles had gone pale. He did not look up.
"Yes," he said. "She was."
The vicar shook his head, as though trying to dislodge the image.
"And she did that? Knowingly?"
Thomas hesitated.
There it was again—the old reflex.
The pause before deciding what could safely be said.
"I don't think she thought of it as doing anything," he said at last. "Not in the way you mean."
The vicar frowned. "What way did she mean it, then?"
Thomas looked up now, and for the first time there was something sharp in his expression—not anger, not pride, but a hard-earned clarity that came too late to be useful.
"She wanted to see what would happen," he said. "And she wanted to see if I would listen."
The vicar's mouth opened, then closed again.
"When she asked me," Thomas continued, voice low, "it didn't feel cruel. It felt… small. Reasonable. Like being trusted with something delicate." He swallowed. "I thought I was helping her. I thought—"
He stopped himself, a faint, bitter sound escaping him that might almost have been a laugh.
"That if I meant well, nothing bad could come of it."
The vicar leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight.
"And now?" he asked. "What do you think now?"
Thomas's gaze drifted, past the vicar, past the altar, to the great wooden doors at the far end of the church.
"Now I know better," he said. "Kindness was never the measure she cared about. Only loyalty."
Outside, thunder murmured—distant, dissatisfied.
"She didn't stop after that," Thomas added. He said it plainly, without ornament, as though stating a fact long since stripped of any of its potential to shock. "She learned what she needed to learn. As did I."
The vicar's voice was barely audible. "Why didn't you tell someone?"
Thomas smiled then, small and tired.
"Who?" he asked gently.
The question lingered between them, unanswered.
"She taught me very early," Thomas went on, "that our worst acts do not always strike us as sinful while we commit them. They can feel like favors. Like necessary acts of survival. Even as an expression of devotion."
He stood, slowly, joints aching in protest, and for a moment looked every year of the man he had become.
"And once you've helped someone do a terrible thing," he said, "it becomes much easier to help them again. Especially when they remind you that it was your choice."
The vicar crossed himself, fingers trembling.
"Does she still live?" he asked.
"Yes," Thomas said. "As far as I know."
He paused at the aisle.
"And I promise you this," he said softly, turning back once, his face half-lit by the candlelight and half-lost to shadow. "That was the last innocent deed she ever asked of me."
The wind rose outside.
It rattled the church doors and rafters.
As though something wished very badly to be let in.
The vicar exhaled slowly.
"In that case," he said, rubbing a hand over his face, "we should not continue this here."
Thomas looked around the nave—he wondered how many sins the stone of its design had already heard, how many it had kept. Wondering, as well, just where his own tale might rank among them.
"The confessional," the vicar added, quieter now.
Less of a command than a concession.
Thomas nodded.
"That would be fitting," he said.
They rose together. The vicar took a candle from the altar and lit it, the flame flaring briefly before settling into a steady arrow shape. He gestured toward the small door along the side aisle, its paint worn smooth by generations of hands that had sought it in moments of weakness.
As they walked, Thomas felt the old sensation stirring again—a narrowing of the world, the sense of walls drawing closer, of all other options quietly dissolving from his consideration.
"Father," he said, just before they reached the door.
"Yes?"
"It gets so much worse."
The vicar's hand tightened around the candle.
After a moment, he inclined his head.
"Then," he said softly, "we will hear it where such things belong."