The house did not celebrate after the guests left.
Calderne House simply endured.
Silence returned in layers—first the absence of voices, then the retreat of footsteps, then the slow settling of air into corners that had been disturbed by expectation. Night pressed against the windows, cool and patient. Lamps burned low, their light restrained, as if brightness itself were inappropriate.
Eirlys closed the door to the east room behind her and stood very still.
The room was larger than any she had slept in before. The bed alone looked capable of swallowing a person whole. Pale curtains moved faintly with the breath of the house. Somewhere nearby, water flowed through pipes with a sound like distant rain.
She set her gloves on the table. Then her veil. Each movement felt ceremonial, though no one watched.
She reached up and loosened the pins in her hair. Dark strands fell around her shoulders, softening the careful composure she had worn all day. For a moment, she leaned her palms against the table and let her head drop.
Not yet, she told herself. Later.
A knock sounded.
Her spine straightened at once.
"Yes?" she called.
The door opened just enough to reveal Maëlle's familiar shape, wrapped in a dark coat, eyes sharp with concern.
"You vanished," Maëlle said. "I had to dodge three people who wanted to congratulate me on surviving."
Eirlys managed a small smile. "You always were good at that."
Maëlle slipped inside and closed the door behind her. She looked around the room once, taking in the size, the order, the distance built into the space.
"So," she said. "This is it."
"This is it."
Maëlle's gaze returned to Eirlys's face. "Did he say anything?"
"Enough."
"That sounds like nothing."
"It was."
Maëlle exhaled through her nose. "I don't like him."
"You're not required to."
"I'm not required to like many people. I still manage."
Eirlys moved to the chair near the window and sat. The day caught up with her all at once, pressing down behind her eyes.
"He was polite," she said. "Clear."
"That's worse."
Eirlys looked up. "Why?"
"Because polite men rarely notice damage," Maëlle replied. "They just step around it."
A pause followed. The house listened.
"Will you stay tonight?" Eirlys asked.
Maëlle hesitated. "I can't. I'm expected back before morning."
Eirlys nodded. She had known the answer before she asked.
Maëlle crossed the room and squeezed her shoulder. "You can still speak," she said quietly. "Even now."
Eirlys covered Maëlle's hand with her own. "I know."
Another knock interrupted them—firmer this time.
Maëlle stepped back at once.
"Yes?" Eirlys called.
Bram's voice came through the door. "Sir Calderne requests a word."
Maëlle's jaw tightened. She said nothing.
Eirlys rose. "I'll come."
Maëlle leaned close. "If you need me—"
"I'll send," Eirlys said.
Maëlle slipped out without another word.
The corridor outside felt longer than before. Lamps cast shadows that shifted as Eirlys walked, her bare footsteps nearly soundless on the rug. She passed doors she did not yet recognize, spaces she had not earned the right to enter.
The west wing waited.
Sebastian stood in his study with his back to the door, jacket removed, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Papers lay neatly arranged on his desk. A single lamp burned beside them.
"Come in," he said without turning.
Eirlys did.
He faced her at last. The distance between them remained carefully measured.
"I wanted to be certain you had what you needed," he said.
"I do."
"Good." A pause. "If anything is lacking, Bram will see to it."
"Of course."
Silence stretched.
Sebastian's gaze lingered on her face, as if searching for a reaction she refused to give him.
"This arrangement," he said, choosing his words with care, "will require discretion."
"I understand discretion," Eirlys replied.
"I mean publicly."
"I understand that too."
Another pause. Sharper now.
"You're calm," Sebastian observed.
"I've had practice."
His mouth curved faintly. Not quite a smile.
"You may find this house… isolating," he said.
"I grew up on the edge of the city," Eirlys replied. "Isolation doesn't frighten me."
That answer unsettled him. He did not hide it well.
"Very well," he said at last. "That will be all."
Eirlys inclined her head and turned to leave.
"Eirlys."
She stopped.
"Yes?"
Sebastian hesitated. The moment stretched thin, fragile.
"Thank you," he said finally.
"For what?"
"For not asking."
She considered him for a long second, then nodded once and left.
The door closed behind her with a soft final sound.
Sebastian remained where he was, staring at the place she had stood. After a moment, he crossed to his desk and opened the locked drawer.
The letter lay inside, edges worn.
He closed the drawer without touching it.
Upstairs, Eirlys paused outside her room again. She pressed her palm briefly to the door, then stepped inside and closed it behind her.
In the quiet that followed, both husband and wife lay awake on opposite ends of the house, listening to Calderne House remember things neither of them had spoken aloud