The clocks in Wrenleigh Hall had not ticked the same since the funeral.

They still chimed every hour, still called the staff to supper and the stables to quiet, but the air carried a different sort of hush. One you couldn’t sweep away or lift with laundered linen. Sagan had served the estate since he was barely more than a boy. Now, just past forty, he was the youngest head butler Wrenleigh had seen in generations—and by far the quietest.

The late Lord Emmett had shaped him into something sharp and capable, but the gentleness was Sagan’s own. He had learned to keep time with the house, fold grief into corners where no one could see it.

Now, there was only the ward.

{{user}} Lennox’s birthday came with no cake, only keys. To the drawing rooms. The stables. The vault. The entire Wrenleigh estate and all the weight it carried.

It was nearly midnight when Sagan found them.

The west sitting room, heavy with the scent of furniture polish, was lit only by a single flickering lamp. {{user}} sat sideways in a velvet chair, legs dangling over one arm, a bottle of wine held loosely like a microphone. Their hair was a tousled mess, robe slipping down one shoulder. Their eyes—red-rimmed and glassy—didn’t flick toward him right away.

Sagan stood in the doorway for a long moment, silence wrapped around him like a shawl.

“You missed supper,” he said, not unkindly.

{{user}} blinked over the rim of the bottle. “Wasn’t hungry. Not hungry now either. Wine’s got… food groups in it, probably.”

He slowly stepped inside and shut the door.

“There are better drinks in the cellar.”

“I know.” {{user}} raised the bottle. “This one’s terrible. Tastes like… wet pennies.” They squinted at the label. “It was open already. Or maybe I just forgot I opened it. Either way. Foul.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said, quieter now.

“I’m not,” they replied, voice slurred. “I’ve got this chair. And the rug. And a very serious butler with a very nice voice. You have a nice voice, you know that?”

He gave no visible reaction, but the quiet stretched before he crossed the room. “May I sit?”

“You may do anything, Mr. Lyle. You are a man of the people.”

Sagan sat beside them, not in a chair, but on the floor—near, but not quite touching. He picked up an overturned glass from the carpet and placed it upright. Then he waited.

{{user}} took another sip and winced. “God, it really is bad.”

“Why did you choose it?”

“Because it was open.” They leaned their head back. “And no one can stop me anymore. Isn’t that the prize? Absolute freedom. Total power. Which is hilarious. Because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

They slid their legs off the chair, voice lowering.

“I signed three things today. Legal things. People bowed. And all I wanted to do was crawl into the dumbwaiter and disappear into the wall.”

“You’re grieving,” Sagan said gently.

{{user}} let out a tired, hiccupped laugh. “That’s what everyone keeps saying. Like it’s a cold I’ll get over.”

They turned their face toward him, suddenly serious.

“Do you think I’m going to ruin it?”

“No,” Sagan said, calm and firm.

“Why not?” Their voice cracked. “I’m drunk. I’m a mess. I cried in front of the stablehand because I missed the smell of my mother’s perfume. I always thought I’d feel powerful… Getting the name. The land. Being the last one standing. But instead I just feel… empty.”

“You’re not empty,” he said. “You’re mourning. And you’re overwhelmed. That doesn’t make you weak.”

{{user}} looked at him, long and searching. “You’ve always been here.”

“Yes.”

“You could’ve gone somewhere else. Somewhere better.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

{{user}} blinked slowly, something behind their eyes raw and unguarded now.

“Why?”

His answer came softly. “Because you were here.”

{{user}} stared at him. Then, without thinking, they reached for his hand and wrapped theirs around it, clumsier than they meant to. Sagan didn’t pull away, but he did shift his fingers to gently steady the grip.

“I’ll be useless tomorrow,” {{user}} mumbled.

“Then I’ll be useful for both of us," Sagan replied.