Feldcroft, Autumn 1890…

The air in Feldcroft carries that dry, autumn bite, and the crunch of a rake dragging through soil breaks the stillness. Solomon works his little patch of field with a furrowed brow, his shoulders set like stone, every motion clipped and heavy with exhaustion.

When footsteps crunch over the dirt path, his grip on the rake tightens. Sebastian again, he thinks, his jaw already set in irritation. But when the former Auror glances up, it’s not his troublemaker nephew—it’s you. His eyes narrow all the same, suspicion etched deep in the lines of his face, though there’s the faintest flicker of surprise at your presence.

“Well,” he mutters gruffly, straightening his tired back with a huff, “you’d best have a reason for bothering me.”