A faint sliver of morning light crept across the room, nudging against closed eyelids and the soft weave of the coverlet.
Mary Jane stirred first.
Blinking herself awake, she became gradually aware of the warmth curled against her side — small, trusting, and so heartbreakingly innocent.
For a moment, she thought Ethan was back in her arms. She blinked harder to be sure she wasn't dreaming.
Oh, it was Jason.
He was still tucked tightly against her, his little face pressed into the crook of her arm, his breath steady and even.
But even though she was disappointed it wasn't her stepbrother, Ethan, she was no less delighted to see this sweet boy beside her. Mary Jane simply lay there, feeling the quiet weight of his trust.
Without Jason, she would have viewed her life in this world with more anguish, her longing for her little brother would have been too unbearable.
The fierce protectiveness that rose in her chest startled her, but it was steady. Solid.
Slowly, she shifted her hand and gently brushed a few stray golden strands away from Jason's forehead. Her touch must have disturbed him, for the boy gave a soft whimper and burrowed even closer.
"Mm... Mama..." he mumbled sleepily, his voice thick with dreams.
Mary Jane's throat tightened.
"It's alright, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. She smoothed his hair again, her heart aching and full at once. "Go back to sleep if you want."
Jason made a small, satisfied sound — somewhere between a sigh and a hum — but after a few more seconds, he shifted again, blinking open groggy blue eyes.
"Morning?" he asked, still half-asleep, his voice raspy with lingering dreams.
"Yep. Morning," Mary Jane smiled, lowering her head slightly so he could see her better. "You had a good sleep, didn't you?"
"You didn't have a nightmare this time." Jason nodded solemnly. "Good." His small fingers absently gripping the fabric of her sleeve.
For a moment, he just lay there staring at her, as if making sure she was still real, still safe.
Then, with a sleepy grunt, he sat up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
Mary Jane chuckled softly and sat up with him, careful not to rush him from the slow, precious peace of the morning.
"Come on," she said warmly, smoothing down his rumpled hair. "Let's get ready for breakfast before your father sends a search party."
Jason gave a shy smile, and Mary Jane's heart squeezed all over again.
As they rose from the tangled bedclothes, hand in hand, the day ahead seemed somehow lighter, as if the fragile thread of family between them had grown a little stronger, a little more sure.
And deep inside, Mary Jane dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was no longer as alone as she once was.
The dining hall was already bathed in soft morning light when Lady Whitman arrived, Jason's small hand tucked neatly into hers.
The Earl of Whitman — Anthony — stood near the head of the table, half-turned toward the hallway as if he had been preparing to come looking for them. At the sight of his son, his stern mouth eased into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't far from it either.
Jason, still tousled and pink-cheeked from sleep, gave a sheepish little bow.
"Good morning, Father."
Anthony's sharp eyes softened visibly.
"Good morning, son. You were missed."
Lady Whitman curtsied politely, feeling unexpectedly shy under the Earl's gaze.
"Forgive our tardiness, my lord," she said lightly. "We... overslept."
Jason immediately piped up, his voice earnest.
"I asked Mother if I could sleep with her. She said yes!"
Mary Jane couldn't help the faint flush that crept up her cheeks. She kept her tone light, almost teasing.
"It is my fault, my lord. He is a most persuasive negotiator when armed with sleepy eyes and a woolen blanket."
The Earl's mouth twitched, a faint chuckle escaped him before he could smother it.
"Indeed," he said, voice low and unreadable. "I know the strength of his tactics firsthand."
He gestured toward the table where warm bread, butter, and preserves awaited them, along with a modest selection of morning meats and fruits.
"Come, let us eat before Cook has a fit over her efforts growing cold," he said, his voice a shade gentler than usual.
Jason immediately brightened and tugged Mary Jane to sit beside him — not across the long table, but right at his side, as naturally as if she had always belonged there.
The Earl took his seat at the head of the table, unfolding his napkin with deliberate grace, but his gaze drifted to them more than once — Jason prattling softly about his dreams, Lady Whitman laughing quietly, listening with such patience, such affection. He noticed even the gentle way the countess picked up her napkin to wipe a bit of jam around the boy's mouth.
Anthony found himself lingering over his coffee longer than usual, when he previously would have left immediately to avoid her company. Just watching them from beneath lowered lashes.
It was so simple, this tableau.
So ordinary.
Yet it stirred something deep and vulnerable inside him — that fragile hope he felt earlier that he dared not name.
Once again, he remembered, the cold silences of the past years. The guilt. The endless, gnawing loneliness he had forced himself to live with for Jason's sake.
He remembered, too, how the old Countess — the woman before her accident — had held his son at arm's length, an inconvenience to be tolerated at best, a nuisance to be avoided at worst.
And now — this.
Jason reaching for Lady Whitman's hand as he laughed. Lady Whitman gently reminding him to chew properly between giggles. A simple, easy bond that needed no permission, no audience.
Anthony swallowed hard around that tightness that was still in his throat.
Perhaps Nanny Jones was right... perhaps people could change.
Or perhaps, he thought, studying the warm light that framed Lady Whitman's hair, like a golden halo, perhaps the woman he had married had not been who he thought she was at all.
And perhaps it was not too late — not yet — to reclaim something of what had been lost.
For Jason's sake.
For all their sakes.
Clearing his throat, he set down his coffee cup with a quiet clink.
"You are welcome," he said quietly, addressing Lady Whitman directly, his voice gruff but sincere, "to join us for every meal... whenever you wish."
Lady Whitman blinked, then smiled — soft and luminous, like sunrise warming the chill away.
"Thank you, my lord," she said warmly.
"Anthony," he reminded her.
"Thank you, A-Anthony." She repeated his name a bit hesitantly, perhaps feeling a bit shy in saying it in the presence of others. "I would like that very much."
Jason beamed between them, utterly oblivious to the quiet tremors shifting the foundations of their small, fragile family.
And so, their breakfast continued until…
The clatter of dishes and the low murmur of servants clearing the table slowly filled the hall as breakfast drew to a close.
Jason hopped off his chair, immediately circling back to tug Lady Whitman toward the gardens, chattering about checking out the progress of the new toy that they were working on. Lady Whitman laughed, allowing herself to be pulled along, her skirts whispering against the polished floors.
Anthony rose to his feet, his hand brushing the edge of the table absently.
He should have already walked away. Should have gone to his study, immersed himself back into the endless tide of estate matters, trading reports, and restoration of charred documents.
Instead, he lingered in the morning light, watching as Jason and the Countess disappeared through the open terrace doors, the boy's laughter and Lady Whitman's answering smile trailing behind them like the fading notes of a forgotten song.
He had known love once — fierce, all-consuming — and the agony of losing it, of losing his first wife, had been a blade he thought he would never recover from.
Yet now... Now, the sight of his son's easy joy, the glimmer of something bright and stubborn in Lady Whitman's eyes, stirred a longing he had thought long dead.
A longing not just for peace — but also for hope and for the warmth of another's embrace. Jason, his very young son, was brave enough and honest enough to seek it and acquire it for himself. Will he be able to do it as well?
He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it settle across his shoulders.
Perhaps he was a fool to wish for more.
But for the first time in a very long while, Anthony Whitman found himself willing — just willing — to be a fool again.
He turned from the sunlit terrace, his heart lighter and heavier all at once, and allowed himself a rare, private smile.
Maybe… not all things broken were beyond repair.
Maybe.
The late morning sun spilled warmly across the manicured lawns, the dewdrops from the early mist now long dried under its golden gaze.
Jason skipped a few paces ahead, his small boots scuffing the gravel path as he regaled Lady Whitman with grand tales of the fortress he and George had built behind the stables.
Lady Whitman chuckled, sketching a hand across her brow to shield her eyes from the brightness.
Ahead, nestled among tidy hedges, Garren's workshop stood waiting, a welcoming hive of noise and fresh-cut wood.
"Perhaps we can convince Mr. Garren to show us the secret compartments again," Lady Whitman teased lightly, her voice bright with amusement.
Jason spun around mid-step to grin at her — and that's when a sharp scream split the air.
It was a maid — arms laden with linens — who screamed and pointed frantically upwards.
It all happened so fast.
Instinctively, Mary Jane's gaze snapped skyward.
A large flowerpot, got dislodged from one of the upper balconies, and was tumbling toward them, spinning wildly, sunlight glinting off shards of broken ceramic.
She didn't think.
She didn't hesitate.
With a fierce yank, Lady Whitman threw her arms around Jason, shielding him completely with her body. She twisted midair, ensuring he was protected beneath her as they crashed onto the grass.
The impact jarred through her body — and then a sharp, fiery agony blossomed in her lower leg. The flowerpot smashed against it with a sickening crack.
She barely heard the splintering pottery over Jason's startled cry.
Pain blurred the edges of her vision, but she clutched the boy close, whispering hoarsely, "You're safe. You're okay."
Chaos exploded around them.
People began shouting and calling for others.
Footmen and housemaids came running from every direction.
George sprinted across the lawns, his face white with fear.
The butler, Mr. Clive, shouted for a physician, his voice carrying like a whip crack.
Jason wriggled free, his face crumpled with guilt and terror as he clutched her hand.
"Mother — Mother, you're bleeding!"
Lady Whitman managed a weak, reassuring smile even as red stained the grass beneath her.
In the distance, heavy footsteps pounded the path—
And then Anthony was there, his coat half-buttoned, his face a mask of barely contained panic.
For one breathless moment, he just stared — at the broken pieces of pottery, at Jason's tear-streaked face, at the blood seeping from Lady Whitman's leg. Barely listening to the maid who was telling everyone what just happened.
Then he was dropping to his knees beside her, his hands moving without thought—checking her pulse, brushing Jason gently aside, barking for bandages, for a litter, for anything.
"You fool," he muttered under his breath, at her, at the world, at the fragile thread that had come so close to snapping. "You brave, stubborn, reckless fool."
Lady Whitman's eyelids fluttered as the pain lanced sharper.
"Jason's...safe," she whispered.
Anthony leaned down, his forehead nearly brushing hers as he rasped, "Yes. Thanks to you."
The world tilted as strong arms lifted her gently onto a hastily summoned stretcher. Jason tried to follow, sobbing quietly, but George held him back, murmuring soothing words.
Anthony walked beside her every step of the way, his hand gripping hers tightly as they carried her back toward the manor, the summer sun casting long shadows behind them.
And somewhere, far above—
a pair of unseen eyes watched silently, with immense satisfaction, from the upper balcony.
*****One heart, one mind, one path divine*****
The heavy oak doors of the countess' bedchamber swung closed behind the physician with a groaning thud, leaving Anthony standing alone in the corridor. A stark contrast to his state when he stood there earlier this morning.
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
He could still hear her.
Muted, but unmistakable—the ragged sound of her breathing, the low whimpers she was valiantly trying to suppress.
And then—
A raw, agonized scream tore through the thick wood and slammed into him like a battering ram.
Anthony flinched visibly.
Without thinking, he pressed a hand against the doorframe, bowing his head, every instinct in his body demanding he burst in and make it stop.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
The physician had been clear: the broken bone had to be set immediately or she might never walk properly again. No amount of wishing or rage could change that cruel necessity.
He exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his hair, disheveled already from his mad sprint across the lawns.
When the screams died down and silence ensued, Anthony straightened and strode toward the grand staircase.
He needed answers.
Now.
With cold face and measured steps that couldn't hide the blazing fire in his eyes, he walked back down and headed to the drawing room, calling out for Butler Clive and Steward Ferguson to gather everyone who witness the incident. In that moment, everyone who saw him vividly remembered the highly respected, widely feared, and fully decorated war hero whom nobody wanted to face in any battlefield.
In the drawing room, the maid who had screamed—a trembling young laundrywoman named Annie — stood wringing her apron, her eyes wide as saucers.
George was there too, one hand on Jason's shoulder, anchoring the boy who refused to budge from the Earl's side.
Anthony's voice, when it came, was low and edged in steel.
"Tell me exactly what you saw."
Annie bobbed a curtsy so deep she nearly toppled.
"I—I was carryin' the laundry, m'lord, when I saw it fall — the pot, from the third balcony. I—I wasn't sure how it got dislodged…but it looked—it looked like—"
Her voice cracked. Jason flinched.
"It looked like what?" Anthony narrowed his eyes.
Annie nodded frantically, tears brimming. "I—I'm sorry, my lord, the sun was in my eyes…But, a flower pot that big… It didn't just slip! I—I'm not sure but I think…"
"Go on." He encouraged the maid calmly.
"I think I saw a hand—or—somebody—nudge it! But it was so high up and with the sun and all… I couldn't see too clearly. I'm so sorry!"
Anthony's jaw locked so tightly it ached.
"And the Countess?"
"When… when I screamed, her ladyship quickly grabbed young Master Jason like a shield—no, not a shield—she covered him, m'lord. Took the brunt of the fall herself."
Annie's voice broke then, and she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.
Anthony shifted his gaze to George, who solemnly confirmed every word.
Jason pressed himself closer to his father's side, crying and asking for his mother, his small hand gripping Anthony's coat.
Anthony let out a slow, deliberate breath.
The knot in his chest tightened. He saw the broken flower pot, he looked up at the upper balconies, and he knew how securely those were placed up there. This kind of 'accident' had never happened before in this home. And not even the harshest weathers have been able to dislodge any of those decorative pots.
This was no accident.
What if it had fallen on her head? The mere thought of it made his blood run cold. He wanted to ask more questions and call for more witnesses, but Jason had been insistently pulling him to go upstairs. And so, he ordered Ferguson to continue the investigation, he stood up, and took Jason to head hurriedly up to the countess's bedchamber.
The heavy door creaked open, and Anthony stepped inside, one large hand resting protectively on his son's thin shoulder.
Jason clutched a handkerchief balled up in his small fist, his face blotchy with unshed tears.
"Is she—Is Mother—?"
The words tangled in his throat.
Anthony tightened his hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. "Come," he said quietly. "See for yourself."
The room smelled sharply of herbs and clean linen.
The fire crackled low, throwing a warm orange glow across the wide bed.
Lady Whitman lay still against the pillows, her face deathly pale, her long lashes resting like dark fans against her cheeks. A fresh bandage encased her injured leg, propped carefully on bolsters. The physician ensured that the newly reset bones were secure from movement with a long wooden splint.
Her hands, usually so lively and expressive, lay motionless atop the coverlet.
"She's sleeping," the physician murmured from his seat by the fire, setting down a mortar and pestle.
"Lost consciousness from the pain after I reset the bone. It's to be expected, my lord. The body can only endure so much."
Anthony exhaled slowly, deeply — something inside him cracking at the sight of her so defenseless.
He turned his head to his steward who was hovering by the door.
"Ferguson."
"We have summoned a priest, my lord." The steward assured them. "She will recover in no time at all once the priest heals her."
Yes, resetting the bone, no matter how painful it was, would help make the Arcane Healing even more effective in restoring the injury back to normal.
Jason broke free from his side with a choked sob and stumbled to the bedside.
He stood on tiptoes, his small fingers reaching hesitantly toward her hand.
"Mother..." he whispered.
Lady Whitman's hand, cool but steady, did not move.
Jason pressed his forehead gently against the back of her hand, his shoulders trembling.
Anthony crossed the room and knelt beside the bed, placing a steadying hand on Jason's back.
He said nothing. There were no words powerful enough to fill the cavernous emotion in the room.
She had taken the blow meant for Jason.
She had shielded him without hesitation.
She had paid the price.
It will just be the height of stupidity for anyone to question the countess's motives at this point. A villainous person who was just pretending to be kind would never put themselves in harm's way the way Bettina did.
Anthony's gaze drifted over her still form — the bruises blooming along her side, the bandage stark against the pale blue of her nightgown, the vulnerable curve of her throat exposed by the loosened ties at her collar.
She looked so fragile — and yet she had proven stronger than anyone he knew.
Jason sniffled, still clutching her hand. "Will she really be alright?"
Anthony's throat worked.
He forced his voice to be steady for the boy's sake.
"Yes. She will heal. We'll make sure of it."
Jason nodded fervently, as if sheer will alone could speed her recovery.
Anthony glanced up at the physician, who gave a subtle, reassuring tilt of his head. She was in no immediate danger—but the pain that the accident caused would remain in the people inside this room.
Anthony turned back to Lady Whitman.
He reached out and gently adjusted the blanket higher over her shoulders, careful not to disturb her injured leg.
She was family.
No—more than that.
Somewhere along the way, when he had been too blind or too afraid to notice—she had insinuated her way into his heart.
Anthony pressed a kiss against Jason's hair, the boy still leaning against her hand, and whispered:
"Stay with her a little longer. I'll be just outside."
And this time, he made a silent vow—whoever had tried to harm her—to harm them—would learn the true meaning of the Earl of Whitman's wrath.
The heavy tension in the sickroom was interrupted by a hurried knock at the door.
George slipped in; a worried frown etched deep between his brows.
"My lord," George said, bowing. "If I may—Mage Henry from the workshop is here. He heard of the Countess's injury and… he wishes to offer his assistance."
Anthony straightened from his place beside the bed.
"Ferguson, how long before the priest arrives?"
"The healer we summoned has not yet arrived sir," the steward said.
"We cannot afford to wait," he turned to the boy, his voice low and tight. "Let him in."
George stepped aside to allow Mage Henry to enter — a cloaked man who looked to be around the same age as his own father, the former Earl of Whitman. With sandy hair, an earnest face, and a worn satchel slung over one shoulder, he walked a few steps before bowing deeply at him.
"My lord," Mage Henry said. "I am slightly trained in the art of mending bone and flesh. If you permit, I can ease the lady's suffering until a full Healer-Priest can be fetched."
Anthony hesitated for no more than a breath — but looking down at Lady Whitman's unnaturally pale face, at Jason's desperate expression — the decision made itself.
"Do it."
Mage Henry approached the bed reverently, pulling out a small polished crystal and a slender strip of charmed cloth from his satchel.
He knelt beside her injured leg, placed the crystal just above the bandage without touching the wound, and closed his eyes in concentration.
In a low, steady voice, he began to chant:
"Vulnus solutum, os integrum,
Textum carnem, animam firmum.
Per lucem et saxum, per artem et caelum,
In nomine misericordiae, dolor abscedat."
The crystal glowed faintly at the mage's voice, which suddenly had an otherworldly tone, a soft green light pulsing with each spoken word.
The air in the room grew warmer, tinged with the scent of fresh earth and rain.
Lady Whitman's breathing, which had been shallow and uneven, deepened slightly.
The lines of pain on her brow smoothed.
Jason watched in wide-eyed wonder, clutching her hand all the tighter.
When the light dimmed and the chant ended, Mage Henry sagged slightly, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I have strengthened the bone's knitting and eased the worst of the pain," he said quietly. "She must still rest, though, and she will also need to replenish the blood that she lost in order to mend fully."
Anthony gave a sharp nod, his voice rough.
"You have my thanks. Remain nearby, should we require more."
Mage Henry bowed again and withdrew silently, leaving only the hushed crackle of the fire behind.
Anthony returned to the bedside, watching the slight, peaceful rise and fall of Lady Whitman's chest.
He found himself silently grateful—not only for her healing, but for the strange web of fate that had brought people like George and Mage Henry into her life.
She was not alone anymore.
Neither were they.