The walk to the Master's study was a silent procession through the sleeping house. Vincent led the way, the lights casting long, leaping shadows that made the portraits on the walls seem to shift and stir. Kaima's earlier bravado had evaporated, replaced by a nervous flutter in her chest. The image of the man at the window, his intense, fleeting gaze was burned onto her retina.
Vincent stopped before a heavy, darkwood door. He gave her a brief, unreadable glance, then knocked twice, softly.
A voice came from within, low and resonant. "Enter."
Vincent opened the door and stood aside, allowing Kaima to step through before closing it behind her, leaving her alone with her client.
The room was a library, vast and soaring. Books lined the walls from floor to a shadowy ceiling, and a great fireplace dominated one end, its fire the room's only source of light. The flames danced over leather armchairs, a large globe, and the spines of countless books. It was the warmest room she'd seen in the house, yet it felt ancient, like a sanctum sealed away from time.
And there he was.
He was standing by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelpiece. He was not just young; he was arrestingly handsome, with features that looked carved from marble, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes of a deep, mesmerising darkness that seemed to hold the firelight within them. His hair was dark and fell slightly across his brow. He was dressed not in the old-fashioned clothes she might have expected, but in a simple, impeccably tailored dark shirt and trousers. His expression was one of profound, melancholic grace.
This was no sulking eccentric. This was a man gripped by a grief so deep it seemed to have preserved him in a state of perpetual, beautiful anguish.
"Miss Bernard," he said, and his voice was the same one from the doorway, a soft, cultured baritone that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. It was gentle, warm, and utterly captivating. "Thank you for coming. I am Damien Tewksbury. Please, forgive the lateness of the hour. I am not... a creature of the daylight."
He offered a small, sad smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Kaima found herself momentarily speechless, her professional composure uncharacteristically frayed. She had prepared for an old man, not this... this vision of tragic nobility.
"It's no trouble at all, Mr Tewksbury," she managed, her own voice sounding too bright, too modern in the hushed space. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine." He gestured to one of the armchairs by the fire. "Please, sit. You have travelled far today. I trust Vincent has made you comfortable?"
"Yes, very. Thank you." She sat, folding her hands in her lap to still their slight tremor. He took the chair opposite, moving with a predator's unconscious grace that was at odds with his gentle tone.
For a moment, he simply looked at her, and the intensity of his gaze was almost physical. It wasn't leering or improper; it was more as if he were studying a painting he'd long admired, committing every detail to memory. Kaima felt a blush creep up her neck.
"Vincent tells me you are newly qualified," he said, pulling his gaze away to look into the fire. "I must admit, I find a fresh perspective... appealing. Those too entrenched in their ways often lack the capacity for true empathy, don't you think?"
It was a perceptive comment, and one that mirrored her own frustrations. "I believe a strong therapeutic relationship is built on empathy above all else," she replied, feeling herself slip into her professional role, a welcome anchor.
"A noble belief." He nodded slowly. "I find myself in need of such a relationship. The loss of my wife... it is a wound that has not healed with time. It has, in fact, grown more profound." His voice softened almost to a whisper on the last words, laden with a pain that felt terrifyingly real and ancient.
"Grief has no timetable," Kaima said gently. "My role is not to rush you through it, but to provide a space to help you navigate it."
He looked back at her, and his dark eyes seemed to shimmer. "A space. Yes. I have been lacking that." He fell silent again, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire. "I think that is enough for our first meeting," he said finally, his tone becoming softly decisive. "I have taken up enough of your evening. We can begin our work properly tomorrow. I feel... hopeful."
He rose, and she followed suit, feeling oddly dismissed but not offended. The session, if it could even be called that, was over almost before it began.
"Vincent will see you back to your room," he said, moving to the door to open it for her. As she passed him, she caught the faint, clean scent of sandalwood and cold night air.
"Goodnight, Miss Bernard."
"Goodnight, Mr Tewksbury."
The door closed behind her, and Vincent was there in the corridor, as if summoned by thought alone. The walk back to her wing was made in a daze. Her mind was a whirl of conflicting impressions: his devastating sadness, his unsettling beauty, the magnetic pull of his presence.
He was nothing like she had expected. The fear she'd felt in the garden was still there, but it was now tangled with a powerful, undeniable fascination. She had come to treat a recluse, but she had met a tragic prince in a forgotten castle. And as she climbed into the vast four-poster bed, the image that came to her mind was not of a grieving widower, but of his dark, fire-lit eyes, and the way he had looked at her as if she were a ghost he'd long been waiting for.