The chimes of the drawing room clock reminded Thomas that time still ticked forward, yet the portrait of his mother held him and his father in the sway of the past. Charles spent his days in his chair beneath the painting, his eyes fixed on Sarah’s image. The old man remained lost in memories of a life gone forever.

Darkness settled through the lonely motes of dust that hung silently in all the rooms, a suffocating bleakness that Thomas longed desperately to escape. Each room held a trace of her, a wisp of her perfume or a stray glove. He longed to run, to find some refuge, but the only place he felt he might find any solace was now closed to him. The manor held the one threat to his heart.

Elizabeth had once occupied only a child’s place in his heart, and he had been safe when all she could offer him was a child’s love. He had tried to convince himself she could always occupy that place within him, but he couldn’t shake the memory of that night and her kiss.

Some might believe that love brought salvation, but Thomas no longer had use for love in any form. Eternal bindings and tender emotions crippled even the best of men, or so he believed, and he was determined he would not be brought down by something so intangible. Let that be for the likes of Henry.