The parlor was filled with soft candlelight and the sound of laughter. Philip Hamilton, seventeen and full of charm, lounged by the fireplace, one leg slung over the arm of a chair, a mischievous smile dancing on his face. “You’ll have to study twice as hard if you want to beat me, Angelica,” he teased, gently tugging the book from his younger sister’s hands.

Angelica, all of thirteen and already sharp-tongued like their mother, narrowed her eyes. “You just read faster. Doesn’t mean you’re smarter.”

From the corner, Eliza watched with fond amusement, her embroidery forgotten in her lap. “Be kind, Philip,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Your sister has improved greatly.”

Alexander looked up from his desk, where he had been scratching out a draft of a letter. “And you, my son,” he added, pushing back his chair, “would do well to spend more time on your Latin. I found your translation… creative.”

Philip winced. “Papa,” he said, drawing out the word with a dramatic sigh, “I am trying. But Cicero is so—so dreary.”

Laughter bubbled up again—little James, barely five, was giggling into his hands. “Cicero sounds like a vegetable,” he squeaked.

“Oh, Jamie,” Philip said with a grin, scooping the boy into his arms. “You’re the only one who truly understands me.”

Eliza shook her head, smiling despite herself. “He’s stalling, Alex. You’ll have to make him work harder if he’s to start Columbia next year.”

“I plan to,” Alexander said, stepping closer and ruffling Philip’s hair. “But tonight—tonight, let’s let him be our boy a little longer.”

Philip looked up at them—his Papa’s tired eyes, his Mama’s quiet warmth—and felt the tug of something tender and safe.

Then Angelica leaned in, whispering like a co-conspirator, “So, are we going to sneak out to the orchard again, or have you finally gone soft?”