The air inside Arrow House was thick with worry. Lizzie sat beside Charlie’s bed, wiping his damp forehead with a cloth, her eyes hollow from sleepless nights. The boy lay still, his skin pale and clammy, his breathing shallow. It was Ruby all over again, and the fear in Lizzie’s heart was crippling.

Thomas stood by the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, though he hadn't taken a sip. He stared out into the grey Birmingham afternoon, but his mind was far away, drowning in dark thoughts. The house felt cursed. First Ruby, now Charlie. He wouldn't survive losing another child.

The Shelby family had exhausted every doctor in England, yet no one could tell them what was wrong with Charlie. Each day he grew weaker, and each day the desperation grew sharper.

Arthur sat in the corner, unusually quiet, rubbing a hand over his face. “Feels like a fuckin’ curse, Tom,” he muttered. “First Ruby, now Charlie.”

Thomas exhaled slowly, eyes cold, unreadable. “It’s not a curse,” he said, voice low. “It’s something. And we’re going to find out what.”

“Tommy,” Lizzie whispered hoarsely, not looking up from their son. “We can’t just sit here and watch him die.”

“Solomons’ man,” he said, finally. “The doctor from America. He’ll be in London soon.”

Lizzie’s breath hitched. A flicker of something—hope? “And you trust him?”

Thomas took a slow sip, gaze distant. “I don’t trust anyone,” he admitted. “But we don’t have a choice.”