As they climbed to the second floor, they came upon a hallway with four doors—two on each side facing one another. The right side belonged to Charles and Chris; the left to Rose and Felix.
The moment the second door on the left was opened, the sharp scent of ink and years-old dust hit their noses. Edmund sighed as the filth of the small room came into view.
Clothes and blankets were strewn across the bed. On the slanted desk near the window, empty ink bottles rolled among crumpled wads of paper. On the floor sat a washbasin filled with the same murky water from the day before.
Edmund walked straight to the window. Dust bloomed like white clouds beneath his feet with every step. With an irritated flick of his hand, he yanked open the curtains and lifted the window sash. A gust of fresh air drifted in from the backyard, where green apple trees formed a leafy fence.
“Is this a room for a human or a pigsty?”
Most people would’ve had a servant clean by now, but Felix refused. Ever since Betsy had once mistaken one of his manuscripts for trash and thrown it out, he never let anyone else clean his space.
After taking in a deep breath of the clean air, Edmund turned back. Beside the desk stood a shelf crammed full of novels and poetry collections. He slid back the book he had borrowed and pulled out the next volume.
There were plenty of books in the red-brick house’s study, but not a single one Edmund actually enjoyed reading. Carl Shore had no interest in cultivating literary taste. To him, anything beyond the classics was a waste of time.
So Edmund, eager to avoid his father’s watchful eyes, secretly stocked this shelf with detective and adventure novels—and shared it with Felix. The risqué books that took up the bottom shelves, however, he ignored completely.
His friends were all discovering the opposite sex after puberty, their curiosity blooming into secret desires, but Edmund was different. Even if a woman were beside him, he had no interest in advancing the relationship into anything more intimate. In fact, he found it all repulsive. His fastidious nature was still too deeply rooted for instinct to triumph over reason.
He stepped out of the dusty room and headed toward the stairs. As he descended, a fragrant floral scent drifted into his nose and stopped him in his tracks.
Of the three doors on that floor, only one was decorated with a fresh flower wreath. Interwoven grapevines formed a circular base, adorned with yellow, white, and crimson portulaca blooms.
It was Sam’s handiwork. Each morning, he picked fresh flowers and arranged them into the wreath for the youngest lady of the house.
Thinking of Rose’s face lighting up at the sight of the flowers, Edmund puckered his lips slightly and made his way downstairs.
In the dining room, Charles looked up from his breakfast.
“Where’s Rose?”
“I saw her get up earlier. She should be down soon.”
“You saw her get up? What, did you give her a good morning kiss?”
Chris chuckled, bouncing his shoulders as he snickered. Edmund’s face twisted as he sat down.
“Please, just shut that mouth of yours.”
“How do you expect me to eat with my mouth shut?”
Chris made an annoying smacking sound with his lips. Edmund clenched his fists under the table. He wanted nothing more than to chuck the cornbread at Chris’s smug face.
Damn it. Why is that idiot still walking around like nothing happened?
Just the other night, Chris had been out partying with delinquents and only came home at dawn. He should’ve been thrashed by Uncle George and now too bruised and defeated to open his mouth.
Yet here he was—no bruises, no shame, just smug arrogance. It made Edmund’s stomach churn.
How the hell did he dodge George’s wrath?
As he glared in disbelief, he spotted Charles—and the answer clicked.
Charles had just returned from Waterford. That meant Uncle George had been in a good mood. Chris had survived on sheer luck.
Charles had enrolled last summer at the Waterford Military Academy in New Olivern and returned home on holiday.
Unless you were aiming to become a doctor, scholar, or lawyer, it was customary for firstborn sons to attend Waterford for two years of military training before inheriting the family business. Families like the Fannings and Shores—who had endured war—sent their sons there out of patriotic duty, believing even farmers should be ready to defend their nation if needed.
So Edmund, destined to one day inherit his father’s investment firm, would inevitably follow in Charles’s footsteps.
He looked at Charles, now returned home as a proper young man, and his eyes gleamed with quiet admiration—like a boy eager to grow up faster. He shoveled boiled potatoes and beans into his mouth. These days, he ate everything in sight.
Charles, surprised to see Edmund eating something he normally disliked, smiled with a mix of pride and curiosity.
“Didn’t you hate potatoes?”
Before Edmund could reply, Chris butted in again, stirring his spoon through his plate.
“Leave him be. He’s finally realized it—if he’s going to carry his heavy ‘cross’ for life, he’d better keep himself healthy.”
Charles and Felix both stifled awkward laughs, remembering last Sunday’s outburst.
Edmund wanted to yell at Chris to shut up again, but held his tongue, worried it would come out sounding weak and strained. Instead, he angrily mashed the round potatoes with his spoon.
He used to throw tantrums when teased like this—threatening to break off the engagement or vowing to divorce the moment they married. But those were childish protests.
He had since come to terms with the unavoidable political marriage arranged by both families. And when he realized that “widowhood was easier than divorce,” resignation was all that remained.
Despite his genuine affection for the Fanning family, Edmund still despised the marriage arrangement.
So he always told Rose:
“Even if we marry, I’ll live my life, and you live yours.”
To Edmund, Rose was nothing more than a childhood friend. Even if forced into marriage, it would be a hollow title. From the moment he met her, he knew he could never love her—and that belief remained unchanged.
And it never will, he told himself, glaring at Chris.
As the boys finished their meal, the barking of dogs echoed from outside.
Their fathers had returned from pheasant hunting in Mansfield. Footsteps and voices mingled on the porch.
“Carl, come in! Stay for a drink.”
“I’ll just have ginger ale. Can’t stay too long—I’ve got breakfast waiting.”
The boys stood and made their way to the parlor to greet the men.
“Good morning, Uncle Carl!”
“How was the hunt today?”
Dressed in hunting gear, Carl sat on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. As he exhaled smoke and smiled at the three brothers, his eyes widened in surprise.
“Oh, you’re here, Father.”
He hadn’t expected his son to be in this house’s dining room. Clearly taken aback, he chuckled as George entered from the kitchen with ginger ale and two glasses.
“Looks like my son’s become part of your household.”
George, already seated on the sofa beside Edmund, let out a hearty laugh.
“If you’re feeling left out, why not take one of mine in exchange?”
“Shall I?”
Carl grinned mischievously, eyeing the three boys before landing on Chris.
“How about it, Chris? Want to come live at my place?”
But George cut in bluntly.
“You’ll regret it. That one skips school and comes crawling home at dawn after hanging out with street punks.”
The atmosphere turned frosty in an instant.
Even among close family friends, being humiliated in front of guests stung. Chris clenched his lips in silent fury, his face red with embarrassment.
But George didn’t care. Complaining that the glasses were too small, he went back to the kitchen.
The room fell silent—except for Edmund, who was quietly elated. His stomach, once unsettled, now felt light.
As he let out a satisfied breath, Carl walked over and gently patted Chris on the shoulder.
“Don’t take your father’s words too hard, alright?”
Carl had always been fond of Chris, who practically grew up in the red-brick house, insisting Edmund become his sidekick just like his older brothers had once made him theirs.
Watching Chris rebel more and more as he got older, Carl felt both concern and affection.
So he offered a kind suggestion.
“Chris, want to ride into Roder Town with me this afternoon? I’ll let you ride Bonnie.”
Bonnie was Carl’s prized racing horse and last year’s champion of the Roder Town Derby.
“What? Bonnie?”
“Uncle, can I ride Bonnie too?”
Charles and Felix chimed in, pleading.
Carl winked.
“Sure. But next time, Chris gets to choose who rides first. Got it?”
He knew Chris, wedged awkwardly between older brothers and a younger sister, often craved attention. The brothers instantly caught on and playfully groaned in protest.
Thanks to the special treatment, Chris’s freckled face finally softened into a smile.
Edmund looked on, unimpressed.
Just then, someone came pounding down the stairs.
“Uncle Carl!”
Before Carl could turn, a head of red curls hurled itself into his arms.
“Rose! Our darling young lady!”
Though she’d grown more mature with age, Rose was still a sunshine-bright child in front of people she loved, and she burrowed into Carl’s embrace without hesitation.
Carl chuckled and stroked the back of her head.
Returning from the kitchen, George caught sight of the scene and let out a baffled laugh.
“Maybe I should give you a daughter instead of a son.”
His half-joking grumble made everyone burst into laughter.
