The western wing had occupied most of Leon’s mornings for the better part of two weeks. What had begun as a few necessary repairs had produced an astonishing number of decisions. Two fireplaces required work, several windows had to be resealed before autumn, and the flooring in one of the rooms had proved worse than expected once the carpet was removed. Every discovery seemed to require another estimate, another letter, or another man standing in Leon’s study explaining at considerable length why something that had survived perfectly well for thirty years before his time could not possibly survive another month.

That morning had begun with the steward, continued with a carpenter, and ended with Leon being presented with three samples of wood which, after several minutes of inspection, appeared to him remarkably similar.

He chose the middle one.

By late evening, Leon had signed what required signing, answered the letters Odette had placed before him, and developed a sincere desire not to be asked what he thought of anything else.

The library seemed unlikely to demand an opinion from him. He took his book and headed to the inner end of the southern wing in search of some quiet. 

To his surprise, when he opened the door, the candlelight flickered. On the right side of the room, René sat on the sofa, scribbling with grave annoyance in his sketchbook before letting out a disapproving sigh.

His eyes landed on Leon almost immediately. He straightened in his seat, the low candlelight catching in his gaze. 

“My apologies,” Leon said. “I did not know you would be using this room.”

René leaned back into the sofa and set his pencil down. He gave Leon a soft smile and nodded.

“I am sorry,” he said softly. “I was told I may come in here.”

“Of course.” Leon’s answer came almost immediately. “Please excuse—”

“You may have the sofa,” René said as he stood. “I prefer the armchair.”

He gathered his pencils and settled quietly into the armchair at the back of the library. Leon remained in the doorway for a moment, watching René cross his legs and return to his sketch. His eyes were fixed on the paper, but his hands did not move.

Leon entered and settled into the warm spot René had left for him. The cushion was still warm beneath him and carried enough of René’s scent that Leon noticed it almost immediately. It was softer than the unsettled trace he remembered from dinner, settled into the fabric after however long René had occupied the sofa.  

After a while, René ripped out a page, tucked it beneath his thigh, and sighed again. This amused Leon enough that he tried to glance at him without being obvious about it.

René raised his head. His gaze settled on Leon’s profile for longer than usual before dropping back to the sketchbook. He turned to a fresh page and began to draw again, this time with less reservations than previously. 

A few minutes later, Leon felt René’s eyes on him again as he was reading. This time, when Leon looked over, René’s attention dropped almost immediately to the page. His pencil moved quickly across it.

Leon looked back at his book. Then, slowly, he turned his face toward the window, away from René’s gaze.

René’s pencil stopped. When Leon did not turn back for several long seconds, René began tapping it softly against the sketchbook. Leon nearly smiled, but remained that way for another moment before turning back to his book. 

The scratching resumed, but René’s scent had changed. The warmth of it remained in the cushions beneath Leon, but something sweeter had begun to gather in the room around him.

Leon returned to his book. Several minutes later, he realized he had read the same paragraph three times.

He blinked and shifted deeper into the sofa. The cushion was warm, the library quiet, and René’s scent had grown pleasantly sweet in the still air. This had been a poor choice of room if Leon intended to remain awake.

“Has Odette mentioned Ms. Wick’s gathering to you?” Leon asked.

“Yes, she has.”

“It is in August. The invitation was extended to both of us.”

René’s pencil slowed.

“Have you ever been to the northern border?” 

“No,” René whispered.

René gave a quiet chuckle and turned the page, drawing idle circles along the edge. “Regarding Ms. Wick… I wouldn’t want my presence to impose upon your acquaintances.”

“You wouldn’t impose.” Leon set his book down. “There is little reason for me to go alone.” 

René’s grip tightened around the pencil. His breath caught, and the warmth of his scent deepened around them. He cleared his throat and nodded, his eyes returning to the sketchbook. He turned the page back to the previous one and continued to draw slowly. 

Eventually, Leon’s eyelids grew too heavy to ignore. Each time René stole another glance his way, the quiet scratching of his pencil seemed to draw Leon closer to sleep. Leon finally stood and closed his book.

“Good night,” Leon said.

René looked up. “Good night.”

Leon had nearly reached the door when—

“Mr. Meren?”

He turned. “Yes?”

René’s pencil had gone still. “I… would like to go. To the gathering,” he whispered.

Leon nodded and departed, not thinking much of René’s decision. But the following morning, Leon found himself looking out of his study window before he had finished his first letter.

René was by the lake again. The morning was bright enough that the water caught the sky in broken patches of blue, disturbed whenever one of the birds landed near the bank. Several ravens had gathered around René’s feet, hopping through the grass as he scattered whatever he had brought for them that morning. One remained farther away, watching him with its head tilted before finally venturing closer.

Leon rested his arm against the back of his chair.

René crouched and held out his palm. The raven approached in short, suspicious steps, snatched something from his hand, and immediately retreated. Even through the closed window, Leon knew what the expression looked like by now when René laughed. His gaze remained there a little longer.

The northern border had little in common with Langrer. The woods thinned as one approached the coast, giving way to long stretches of grass and dark stone before the land fell towards the sea. Leon had been there several times when he was younger, while their family visited Ms. Wick. Anton had once dared him down a narrow path towards the lower rocks, and Leon had returned with a torn coat and enough blood on one knee to ensure neither of them mentioned the excursion at home. 

There was one place in particular where the cliffs curved around the water and birds nested along the rock.

René had said he had never been north.

Leon turned back towards his desk. Odette was sorting through the morning correspondence on the other side of the room.

“How far are the coastal cliffs from the road to Ms. Wick’s estate?”

She stopped sorting. “Which cliffs, sir?”

Leon frowned faintly. “The ones north of Bellmont.”

“Ah.” Odette considered it. “It would add three hours, perhaps a little more, if you mean to stop there.”

Leon picked up the letter he had abandoned and looked at the first line again.

Outside, something struck the window. A raven had landed on the stone ledge, its claws scratching briefly against the sill before it disappeared again.

“Would it delay us considerably?”

“Not if you left early and the weather held, sir.”

Leon nodded. The gathering was still a little over a month away, and the journey itself required little arrangement. Ordinarily, the hour of their departure might have been decided the evening before.

He looked down at the unfinished letter. For a while, there was only the sound of paper moving across the desk.

“We will leave early, then.”