The next morning, the first rays of sun angled through the tall windows of the master bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. Delia was already awake. She hadn't slept. She sat in a plush armchair pulled right up beside the large bed, a silent, unmoving guardian. She held Eric's hand in both of hers, a fragile link to the man who lay so still, lost in a world she couldn't reach.
She gently caressed the back of his hand with her thumb, feeling the texture of his skin, morizing it. She brought his hand to her lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to his knuckles, then rested it against her cheek. His hand felt warm. That simple, biological fact was a bonfire in the cold darkness of her fear. Warmth ant life. It was a sign that he was still in there, that his body was still fighting. The tiny spark of hope she had been nursing all night intensified.
After a mont, the bedroom door opened with a soft click. Lyra entered, carrying a silver tray. On it was a steaming bowl of porridge and a glass of milk. She set the tray on a nearby table and walked over to where Delia sat. Seeing her, Delia imdiately began to shift, preparing to stand out of respect.
Lyra placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "Don't worry about that," she said, her voice a soft, soothing murmur. She looked at her son, his face pale and still against the white pillows, and a wave of sorrow crossed her features. She quickly composed herself, turning her attention back to the living. "Co and eat, Delia," she said, her tone leaving no room for argunt. "You haven't eaten anything since yesterday."
She carried a small stool over and set it right in front of Delia's chair. She then placed the bowl of porridge on it and handed Delia a spoon. "Have so," she urged.
Delia hesitated, her gaze fixed on Eric's still form. She shook her head slightly. "How could I possibly eat," she whispered, her voice hoarse, "when Eric is like this?"
Lyra let out a long, weary sigh. She knelt beside Delia's chair, taking her free hand. "Listen to , my child," she said, her voice firm but full of a deep, aching love. "I will be the one who is heartbroken for Eric right now. I will carry that grief for both of us. But you… you have another life to think of. You must take care of the child growing inside you. You must eat. For the baby. Eric would demand it."
The words struck a chord deep within Delia. For the child. A piece of Eric. A life she had a duty to protect. She looked at Lyra, who nodded for her to take the spoon. Delia looked at Eric's peaceful face, then down at the simple, nourishing bowl on the table. With a trembling hand, she took the spoon, picked up the bowl, scooped a little and had a bite. Then another. And another, with Lyra's steady, encouraging presence beside her, urging her to finish the entire bowl.
~ ••••• ~
Miles away, in the cold visitor's area of Newcastle Prison, the atmosphere was anything but nourishing. Philip sat on one side of a plain wooden table, his face a swollen, bruised mask from Eric's blows.
An ugly purple-and-blue mark covered his cheekbone, and his lip was split. He stared at the table, his expression sullen.
Dowager Duchess Elena sat opposite him, her back ramrod straight, her gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her face was a storm of barely controlled fury and profound disappointnt.
"How could you do such a thing?" she asked, her voice trembling with a rage she could no longer contain. "After everything. After all the chances you were given. I thought you would change. I thought that after you paid for your cris, you would co out a better man. But all you could think of was hurting Eric. Hurting your own brother. Do you truly still think all of this is Eric's fault?"
Philip remained silent, his gaze fixed on the grain of the wood.
Elena continued, her voice rising. "And your leg. What happened to your leg? All those years of pain, of needing a cane. Was that all a lie too?"
Still, Philip didn't say a word. He just sat there, a block of resentful silence.
"Are you really not going to answer ?" Elena demanded, her patience finally snapping.
Philip finally looked up, his eyes cold and devoid of any remorse. "During my travels out of Albion," he said, his voice a flat monotone, "before I was made acting head, I had been receiving treatnts. New techniques."
The simple admission was a fresh betrayal. "So why didn't you tell ?" Elena asked, her voice cracking with the pain of it. "Why didn't you tell your mother, Lyra? We would have been overjoyed."
A cynical, humorless smile twisted Philip's bruised lips. "And then what?" he asked. "If my leg had healed sooner, if I was whole and strong again, you and Father would have turned all your attention back to your perfect, favored son, Eric. You wouldn't have glanced in my direction." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a lifeti of resentnt. "I had to do so acting. I had to keep the injury. It was the only way to get any pity from you, any attention at all. It was the only way to survive in that house."
The confession was so monstrous, so deeply twisted, that it left Elena breathless. He hadn't seen their concern as love, but as a tool to be manipulated. He had used their compassion as a weapon. She stared at the man before her, and for the first ti, she fully understood. She was looking at a stranger. The grandson she had loved, the boy she had raised, was truly and utterly gone, replaced by this cold, calculating creature who felt nothing but resentnt. Then she knew there was nothing left to save.
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