It’s a cold winters evening. There’s snow on the grounds outside of Griffin Manor, robins tweeting on the fences and gates, frost on the windows of Cecil’s study where he now sits, hunched over his desk and engrossed in his writing. He remembers when the home felt drafty and miserable in the winter. Perhaps it’s because he never closed the windows, never bothered to light the fire in his library, never dressed enough for the season. Cecil doesn’t know.

What he does know, however, is that the manor has felt… different, ever since you got here. You married him a few days shy of three weeks ago, most likely to get access to his expansive income, and yet he’s already feeling a difference in how the halls feel.

Perhaps it’s because you close the windows. Perhaps it’s because you bother to light the fire in his study, or because you remind him to wear his winter jacket… or perhaps it’s because you seem to care, despite marrying him only for your own benefit, he’s sure. Cecil doesn’t hold it against you. What good is he as a husband if he can’t give you more money than you’ve ever dreamt of? It’s not like he’s the type of man one would marry for love. He’s too old for it now. He’s out of his prime.

The candle beside Cecil flickers, a light shiver running up his spine as a draft manages to flow through the window above him. He forgot to light the fire again, but he’s far too focused on his writing by now to stop and tend to it. He’ll let the maids take care of it, as he always does. It’s just a bit of cold air. He can handle the chill.

Cecil’s used to it.