Theo learned the mansion by sound before he learned it by sight.
Some doors sighed when opened. Others complained, their hinges sharp and offended, as if Theo's small hands had no business touching them. Floorboards spoke in different voices—soft murmurs in the east wing, sharp cracks near the stairs, a hollow thump in places where rugs had once been and never replaced.
He was five now. Old enough to walk without holding the walls. Old enough to be curious in a way that felt dangerous.
The house was big. Too big.
Theo knew that.. without needing to measure it. He knew it in the way footsteps echoed long after someone had passed, in the way rooms stayed cold no matter how long the sun sat in their windows. Some places still smelled like people who no longer came there. Perfume faded into dust. Old polish. Paper and ink and something bitter underneath it all.
He padded down the hall in socks that didn't quite match, trailing one hand along the wall. The wallpaper peeled where his fingers brushed it, curling like dry leaves. He frowned, then pressed it back, as if that might fix it.
It didn't. So Theo kept going.
He wasn't supposed to wander alone. Someone had told him that. Probably his father. Or his sister. Or one of the remaining servants whose names he always forgot because they never stayed long enough to feel permanent.
But no one had stopped him.
The first person he found was Old Bren, asleep in a chair by the west window. Bren had been with the house longer than Theo had been alive. Longer than Theo's memories reached, anyway. He snored softly, chin tucked to his chest, a ledger open and forgotten on his lap.
Theo crouched to look at it.
The pages were filled with lines and numbers that made no sense. Some were crossed out. Some circled. Some written darker than the rest, as if pressing harder would make them.
He stood up quietly and moved on.
The mansion opened into its central hall, a space that used to feel grand and now felt empty in a way that pressed on his ears. Sunlight fell through tall windows, catching dust in its beams. The chandelier overhead was missing three crystals on its left side. Theo knew that because Lyra had told him once, tugging his hair while she did.
"They fell before you were born," she'd said. "No one's bothered to replace them."
Theo looked up at them now, squinting.
They looked lonely.
A voice drifted through the hall.
"…we'll stretch it again. Thinner loaves. No one will complain if they're fed."
Theo stopped.
His head turned before his feet did, the sound tugging at something deep and instinctive. Warmth followed it. Not heat exactly. Something softer.
Bread. Theo followed the smell.
The kitchen sat at the heart of the mansion, wide and worn, its stone floors smoothed by generations of feet. Some of the counters were empty now, tools gone, shelves bare where copper and iron once hung. But the ovens still lived.
They always did.
Theo lingered in the doorway, small fingers curling around the frame.
Master Hollis stood at the central table, sleeves rolled, hands dusted white. He was the house's last cook—not a chef, really, not anymore. His hair had gone mostly gray in the past few years, his posture bent not by age but by habit. He moved carefully, like everything he touched might break if he rushed.
Three loaves sat cooling on the counter. Not many. Not enough.
Theo knew that, too.
Hollis turned, noticed him, and paused.
"Well," he said, voice rough but not unkind. "If it isn't the little lord himself."
Theo took a hesitant step inside.
"I smelled it," he said.
Hollis snorted. "That's usually how it starts."
Theo watched as the man lifted one loaf, tapping the bottom. A hollow sound answered. Hollis nodded, satisfied enough.
"Is that for the town?" Theo asked.
Hollis's hands stilled.
"For the house," he said carefully. "And for the staff."
Theo frowned. "What about everyone else?"
Hollis set the bread down and wiped his hands on his apron. "That's… not today's problem."
Theo accepted that answer the way children often did—with suspicion but no tools to argue.
He climbed onto a stool without being invited. Hollis pretended not to notice.
"Why are they smaller?" Theo asked after a moment.
Hollis glanced at him, one brow lifting. "You've got sharp eyes."
"They were bigger before," Theo said. He didn't remember when, exactly. Just that they had been.
Hollis looked back at the loaves. "Flour doesn't go as far as it used to."
Theo swung his legs. "Why?"
Hollis hesitated.
"Because the mills charge more," he said finally. "Because the fields didn't do well last season. Because House Oaten doesn't host festivals anymore, and people remember that."
Theo absorbed this in silence.
House Oaten.
The name felt heavy in his chest. Important. Fragile.
"Father looks tired," Theo said.
Hollis huffed a quiet laugh. "That he does."
Theo watched the oven, the steady glow behind its iron door. His hands curled unconsciously, fingers rubbing together.
"Can I help?" he asked.
Hollis blinked. Then laughed outright.
"Help?" He shook his head, smiling despite himself. "You're barely taller than the table, lad."
Theo didn't argue. He just watched.
Hollis sliced one loaf, steam escaping in a soft sigh. The smell filled the room properly now, warm and comforting and sharp enough to make Theo's throat ache.
Something tugged at him. A memory that wasn't a memory. Hands guiding his. A voice telling him not to rush.
Bread that doesn't fight back isn't real bread.
Theo frowned, unsure where the thought had come from.
"Does it ever get better?" he asked.
Hollis paused mid-cut.
"That depends," he said slowly. "On whether the house remembers what it was good at."
Theo tilted his head. "Food?"
Hollis smiled, small and sad. "Among other things."
Footsteps echoed outside the kitchen. Lyra's voice followed, sharp and bright.
"Hollis! Father wants to know if…"
She stopped when she saw Theo.
"Why are you always where you're not supposed to be?" she demanded.
Theo shrugged. "I was listening."
"That's worse," Lyra said automatically, then sighed. "Come on. You'll be underfoot."
She grabbed his wrist—not unkindly—and tugged him off the stool.
As they left, Theo looked back at the loaves cooling on the counter.
They looked lonely too.
Later, tucked into bed, Theo stared at the ceiling as the house settled around him. He listened to the distant creaks, the far-off murmur of adult voices carrying worries they thought children couldn't hear.
Flour. Mills. Town.
He pressed his hands together beneath the blanket.
The house was starving.
And for reasons he couldn't explain yet, Theo felt like he was supposed to do something about it.