When he finished, he looked up at her with shy resolve. “Miss Edgewood,” he said, “may I keep another song today? I think I’m ready.”
She smiled. The expression felt fragile, but honest. “Yes, Henry. I believe you can.”
His joy was immediate and unguarded, the kind that made her forget, for a moment, the heaviness waiting beyond the door.
Marcus drew a slow breath before speaking from behind them.
“Miss Edgewood,” he said, “may I have a word with you after the lesson?”
Her pulse skittered. She kept her eyes on the music.
“Of course.”
Henry sensed the shift at once. He glanced between them, curious and bright.
“Is it about my new song?” he asked. “Because I can work harder.”
Lila’s heart softened. “This part is for your father and me,” she said gently.
“Oh.” Henry considered this, then nodded with solemn importance. “I can wait in the hall. I’ll stay where Mrs. Dove-Lyon can see me.”
Marcus crouched to meet his son’s eyes.
“Before you go,” he said, “know this. You played well today.”
Henry’s chest lifted with pride.
Something inside Lila tightened, then eased, as she watched Marcus give his son that steady warmth, that honest praise, without hesitation. Fierce and tender, both at once. She turned back to the music before the rest of the thought could form.
“Let’s play it once more,” she said.
Henry pressed the keys again, slowly, determined. The line was smoother this time. The hesitation gone.
When he finished, Lila laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You kept it,” she whispered.
Henry looked up at both of them and, reached for Marcus’s hand.
“Papa,” he said, “will you listen again tomorrow?”
Marcus stilled for the briefest moment. Then he closed his fingers around his son’s, steady and warm.
“I will,” he said.
The lesson ended soon after, but no one moved to leave at once. Henry lingered, straightening sheet music with the earnestcare of someone who believed order helped music behave. Marcus remained near the window, watching them with a gaze that was too intimate for a room shared by three.
At last, Henry tugged Marcus’s sleeve. “Papa,” he said, “may I wait in the hall while you talk? I won’t go far.”
Marcus considered him. “Stay where Mrs. Dove-Lyon can see you.”
Henry nodded solemnly and slipped out.
Silence settled behind him, soft as falling cloth.
Lila gathered her courage. “Marcus,” she began.
He stepped toward her. Not hurried. Not abrupt. Just enough that she felt his warmth, his attention.
“Lila,” he said quietly, “we cannot go on pretending nothing is happening.”