Morning light fell across Leon’s desk, illuminating the papers he had spent the better part of an hour pretending were interesting. He dipped his pen into the ink and returned to the figures before him.

Dark wooden shelves covered most of the walls, crowded with books whose worn spines suggested they were more than decoration. The green walls might have made the room gloomy were it not for the tall windows admitting so much light. A large desk stood near the windows, its surface occupied by papers, several open books and an inkstand.

Leon had promised himself he would finish the accounts before riding. The promise had begun to seem unnecessary. Blaze had already been exercised that morning, and the weather was far too pleasant to spend much longer behind a desk.

Six years earlier, Leon would simply have left. At sixteen, there had always been another hill worth riding down too quickly, another fence that looked considerably smaller from horseback, and enough confidence in his own balance to make the consequences seem unimportant.

Anton, his eldest sibling, had encouraged some of it. He had been the better rider then and remained so now, though Leon had never willingly admitted it to him. He was also seven years older. By the time Leon was fourteen, Anton had already become Captain of the Gandarmerie at twenty-one and somehow made the difference between them appear considerably greater than it was. 

Leon had since become less willing to be the younger son whose greatest accomplishments involved Blaze and poor judgment. There were accounts to oversee now, tenants whose letters required answers and an estate his parents trusted him to manage. He intended to deserve that trust, even if the southern road was considerably more appealing than the figures before him.

His mother’s letter had done little to improve his mood. She inquired whether he had agreed to attend the small gathering Ms. Wick was to hold in August. Mrs. Meren, however, had included an interesting suggestion for her youngest son. She advised him that his husband might prefer to remain at Langrer after “such a recent adjustment,” and that Ms. Wick would understand if Leon attended alone.

Leon read that portion twice, and both times his brows pulled together. He was married, living upon his own estate and perfectly capable of deciding whether his husband ought to be dragged to Ms. Wick’s drawing room. Apparently, his mother remained unconvinced of the last point.

Leon had never expected marriage to alter his life considerably. His sister’s marriage had been arranged, and she seemed perfectly content with it. His own parents had done well enough. He had always assumed that when his turn came, someone suitable would be found, they would learn to live together, and with any luck come to enjoy each other’s company.

He had only just turned twenty and two when his parents proposed René as a suitable husband. The arrangement surprised him. Helena had married at twenty, but Anton, the eldest of them, remained unmarried. Leon had supposed his brother’s prospects would occupy their parents before his own. Apparently, they had decided otherwise.

Still, his parents considered him ready. Leon was hardly going to suggest otherwise. René was twenty-five, three years his senior, and Leon had been annoyingly conscious of the difference when they met. He had sat a little straighter and tried to speak with particular care, determined not to give René any reason to think his parents had offered him a boy. 

He knew about the gossip surrounding René, but gossip was not particularly relevant to the life Leon intended to lead at Langrer. René himself had seemed calm and agreeable when they met. Quiet, certainly, but Leon had managed to make him laugh once during their conversation. He remembered the smile that remained afterwards and watching for it again. 

When René agreed to the union, Leon found himself smiling and content.

René had asked only one thing of him before they parted. He wished to have a room of his own after they married. A small one, he had added, as though Leon might object to giving him anything larger.

Leon had seen no reason to object at all. Langrer had more empty rooms than either of them could reasonably occupy, and if René preferred to have some part of the house entirely to himself, Leon was quite happy to give it to him.

He had assumed René valued his privacy. Nothing in the month since their marriage had given Leon much reason to think otherwise.

“Odette,” Leon called to his butler without looking up from the papers, “does he dine downstairs these days?”

“No,” Odette replied. “Perhaps he doesn’t care for the place.” 

Leon gave her an amused look as he set his pen down. 

“He does appear to be outside now,” she remarked.

Leon turned and looked out the window. And indeed, there he was again.

He had observed that René had taken to walking in the garden for the past few weeks. The April breeze had turned the ravens into constant foragers, and René had begun scattering grains and berries for them before continuing on his way. For the past few days, some had followed close behind as he walked away, accompanying him around the lake.

“Sir,” Odette interrupted somewhat sheepishly, “perhaps he might dine downstairs if… you asked him to.” 

Leon’s face returned to her with an unmistakable question. But after he glanced outside once more, he gave a soft nod and returned to his work. 

By evening, Leon had taken his butler’s advice and finally invited his husband downstairs for dinner.

René had dressed more carefully than Leon had expected. His waistcoat was patterned in muted olive and gold, fitted closely over a cream shirt and neatly tied cravat. A thin gold chain crossed the dark fabric at his waist. Even his cuffs had been fastened with particular care.

Leon looked at him for a moment longer than necessary. There was not much else to do anyway, since René did not converse with him of his own accord.

Leon inquired about his well-being, whether the gardens were to his liking, and whether he had been enjoying the weather. René never said more than was necessary, and even that seemed an exaggeration.

As René glanced up from his plate, his languid eyes met Leon’s. They looked almost grey in the evening light, their pale blue made more pronounced by his dark brows and hair.

For that brief moment, René’s gaze was piercing, and Leon found himself in no hurry to look away.

From across the table, mingling with the smell of herbs and meat, a familiar scent reached Leon. He had smelled it during the ceremony. René seemed troubled again, if Leon understood the unsettled scent correctly. 

“Have you seen the swans by the pond?” Leon asked.

René raised his head, his eyes widening, but his mouth didn’t open. Leon was about to look back down at his dinner when René answered.

“I… Yes, I saw them,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “I am very fond of birds.”

“There must be plenty on the estate.”

René nodded twice, and for the first time that evening, words followed.

“There are a lot of robins in the garden. But the ravens take up most of my time.” His voice had grown steadier. 

“How so?”

René unclenched his hands and placed them beside his plate on the table. His gaze shifted toward Leon.

“I have been… feeding them. I hope that is not an issue.”

“Not at all.” Leon smiled.

Something moved at the corner of René’s mouth, there and gone before it quite became a smile. His scent, however, grew lighter. They returned to their dinner, and when René had finished his meal, Leon bid him good night. 

Later that evening, Leon found himself thinking of the expression René had stopped before it became a smile.

He had seemed easier after that. Not entirely at ease, perhaps, but enough that Leon wondered whether he had mistaken silence for preference. 

René had not asked to dine downstairs. 

Then again, Leon had never asked him to either.