Ambrose reached for the decanter.
The liquid burned low and bitter down his throat.
It felt, for a fleeting second, like leading a lamb by a silken ribbon. Knowing exactly where the blade would fall.
He set the empty glass aside with slow precision, then dipped his pen into the inkwell.
The dark haired man wrote the words in measured strokes, then leaned back, studying the line as if it were something alien. Something that had slipped from his hand without his consent.
His hand lingered… Then pulled away.
The mask slid back into place.
Ambrose folded the letter, sealed it, and rose without another glance.
Tomorrow, he would deliver it to Madame Ashford as if none of this had ever happened.
Tomorrow, he would hold out his hand and guide the boy through another waltz. Steady, patient, unaffected.
But tonight, for one fragile, damning moment…
The wolf's teeth had grazed the tender throat.
And he'd wondered what might happen if he ever let himself bite down.
. . .
The morning unfolded in muted shades. The kind of slow, sun-dappled hush that settled heavy over the estate when its mistress was absent.
Ambrose learned of Minerva's departure from one of the housemaids. A murmured exchange over the silver tray bearing Carmine's breakfast. She had left the previous afternoon, quietly as always, without a word to anyone but Mr. Fleming.
Meaning...
She had already gone when Ambrose had the boy in his arms, dancing.
Ambrose folded that knowledge neatly away, into the same compartment where he tucked away most inconvenient truths.
. . .
Carmine was already awake when Ambrose arrived at his door that morning. Dressed and sitting stiff-backed at his desk, as if to prove a point.
"I can wake up myself," the boy muttered, not quite meeting his gaze.
His hair was still a little damp from washing. The edges of his cravat were crooked.
Ambrose made no comment.
If the Young Master wished to pretend there was nothing worth avoiding, then Ambrose would grant him the courtesy of playing along.
. . .
The hours drifted on.
Ambrose took his usual place at the back of the morning lessons, silent, observant. While Mr. George droned on about trade routes and economic policies.
Carmine's head bobbed, his eyelids heavy, only to snap wide every time Ambrose's gaze brushed the back of his neck.
When Rose brought the refreshments Ambrose had ordered, the boy perked up considerably. Right until Ambrose caught his eye over the rim of his teacup and arched a single brow.
No sugar for the Young Master today.
The boy's scowl deepened. But he drank the bitter tea without complaint.
. . .
It was during the staff luncheon that Ambrose overheard the whisper about Madame Minerva's extended absence.
A week, perhaps longer. Her traveling trunks were already being packed.
"You should ask Mr. Fleming."
That was Hans's helpful suggestion when Ambrose inquired about her destination.
The old head butler did know where every Ashford moved and breathed. But he guarded those secrets like a dog at the gates.
When Ambrose met him at the man's office, Mr. Fleming didn't look happy.
"I have a report to deliver," Ambrose tried, pleasant, polished.
"If you have a report, I'll send it to Her Ladyship."
That was the end of it.
Ambrose surrendered the letter without argument.
The truth was... he was almost glad to part with it.
Let the paper burn quietly in Minerva's hands, without ever returning to his.
. . .
By the time the afternoon lesson came, the sun had begun its slow crawl toward dusk.
Ambrose found Carmine already waiting in the music room, standing at the center of the floor, arms folded, chin lifted.
"You're late."
"I'm right on time."
The boy's nostrils flared.
"Go on, then." His voice was calm, but there was a spark behind it. Defiance. "I'll prove that I can."
Ambrose's smile flickered.
Ah... so the little wolf had teeth after all.
"As you wish, Young Master."
He crossed the room in measured steps. Gloved fingers closing lightly around Carmine's hand, guiding him into the proper stance.
Carmine's jaw clenched, but he didn't flinch this time.
When the first notes of the waltz stirred from the gramophone, Ambrose led him forward, slow, patient, letting the rhythm wind around them.
The boy's hands were still clumsy. His grip a little too tight.
But there was fire in him now. A stubborn, burning thing. And Ambrose found himself stoking it without quite meaning to.
"Shoulders back."
"Don't look at your feet."
"That's better."
"Again."
Their steps wove seamless circles across the polished floor.
It was nothing like the first lesson.
There was no teasing. No tension drawn tight between them.
Only breath and motion. The distant strains of music and the hush of fabric brushing fabric.
And yet…
Every time Carmine's pulse jumped under his fingertips, every time their eyes caught and held… Ambrose felt a flicker of something steady and sharp.
Ambrose could see it. Flickering faint and unformed behind the boy's blue eyes. The realization that he could shape how others saw him, if only Carmine learned how.
Ambrose had taught many things in his life.
But this was the first lesson that might be useful.
He watched with quiet interest, wondering how far the boy could go under the right hand.
His hand.
Still, the question remained: would Carmine learn quickly enough before others took notice?
The waltz ended with a final, lingering note.
Carmine swayed slightly, breathless, color high in his cheeks.
His fingers twitched in Ambrose's grasp.
Ambrose's own pulse remained even. His expression unreadable beneath his gloves.
"Well done," he murmured.
Carmine's lashes flicked up.
For half a heartbeat, the boy preened, before catching himself and scowling.
Ambrose's smile was polite.
"I told you I could," Carmine muttered, turning away too quickly.
Ambrose didn't reply. But there was a certain quiet satisfaction in his eyes as he watched the boy retreat.
.
.
.