Page 4 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart
Three days had passed since that first garden session, days filled with Sophia Sinclair’s gentle persistence and unwavering patience. Three days of sketching beneath spreading oak trees while spring sunlight filtered through new leaves. Three days of watching her slender hands demonstrate brush techniques, her lips forming explanations he struggled to fully comprehend despite his growing proficiency at reading them.
Three days of torturous awareness that with each shared hour, each exchanged note, each inadvertent brush of fingers over shared materials, she was breaching the carefully constructed fortress of his isolation.
Alexander stared at the blank page before him, pencil motionless in his hand as rain lashed against the library windows. They were to have begun the formal portrait today, moving from preliminary sketches to the commissioned work itself. Lady Sinclair had prepared the morning room—a chamber with northern exposure that provided ideal light for painting—with her characteristic thoroughness.
Her preparations, like everything about her, reflected both practicality and unexpected thoughtfulness. She had arranged the chair so that he might observe the gardens while posing, ensuring he would not suffer the tedium of staring at blank walls during the long sessions.
Such consideration for my comfort, Alexander thought, the pencil snapping between his fingers. As though sitting still for hours while she scrutinizes my ruined countenance could ever be anything but an exercise in humiliation.
The concept of the portrait, initially merely unwelcome, had transformed into something actively repellent as the reality of it loomed closer. To sit immobile while Sophia— Lady Sinclair , he corrected himself sharply—studied his features with professional intensity. To have her document with artistic precision the changes wrought by war and suffering.
Gregory’s well-intentioned meddling has gone too far, he decided, rising from his desk with abrupt determination. I cannot—will not—subject myself to this refinement of torture, regardless of how many commissions Gregory has promised the woman.
He penned a terse note, his usual precise handwriting rendered somewhat jagged by the force of his agitation:
Lady Sinclair,
I regret that today’s session must be postponed due to unavoidable business matters requiring my immediate attention. My apologies for any inconvenience this may cause to your schedule.
Lord Aldeburgh
The formality of the signature—the title rather than his name—was deliberate, a reassertion of distance he sensed had diminished during their garden sessions. She has begun to see the man rather than the earl, he thought grimly. A dangerous prospect for us both.
He rang for a servant, handing over the sealed note with instructions for its delivery to the east wing before the appointed hour. The valet accepted the directive with his customary impassivity, though Alexander fancied he detected a flicker of curiosity in the man’s gaze.
Had the entire household begun to invest hope in Lady Sinclair’s presence? The notion grated, reinforcing his determination to withdraw from the increasing warmth of her company.
Once alone, Alexander paced the confines of his study like a caged predator, restless energy finding no proper outlet. Sleep had eluded him the previous night, his dreams haunted not by the usual specter of battlefield horrors but by a pair of clear green eyes regarding him with disturbing perception. He had woken at dawn, drenched in sweat, the phantom sensation of slender fingers brushing against his own still tingling across his skin.
The rain continued unabated, rendering even his habitual coastal walks impossible. Trapped within the house, Alexander deliberately avoided the breakfast room, instructing the valet to bring a tray to his study instead.
The prospect of facing Lady Sinclair across the table, of watching her expression shift from anticipation to confusion to disappointment upon receiving his cancellation, was beyond his current capacity for self-control.
Lady Aldeburgh, at least, would be spared the necessity of feigning regret at the portrait’s postponement. Her disapproval of the entire enterprise had been thinly veiled beneath aristocratic courtesy—a rare instance where Alexander found himself in reluctant agreement with his mother’s assessment, if not her motivations.
She fears the portrait will preserve the image of her damaged son for posterity, he thought with bitter clarity. While I fear it will merely confirm what the mirror already tells me—that the man who departed for war exists no longer, replaced by this hollow simulacrum—a facade—who cannot even bear to hear his own voice in the oppressive silence of his world.
The morning passed in restless activity—correspondence neglected during the past days of artistic occupation now addressed with methodical precision, estate matters reviewed and annotated for his steward’s attention, a half-hearted attempt at sketching that resulted in a crumpled page tossed into the fire.
By noon, the performative industry had exhausted itself, leaving Alexander staring at the rain-lashed windows with the familiar weight of purposelessness settling over his shoulders.
A mahogany cabinet in the corner of the study caught his attention—his father’s collection of correspondence, meticulously preserved by generations of Balfours who valued written records of their lineage’s achievements. Alexander crossed to it, fingers trailing over the polished surface before withdrawing a key from his waistcoat pocket.
The lock turned with well-oiled precision, revealing neat rows of leather-bound volumes containing letters spanning nearly a century of family history. He selected one labelled simply Alexander —1805-1810 , the elegant script recognizable as his father’s hand.
Inside lay the documented evidence of his former self—letters from school exulting in his sporting triumphs and academic achievements, correspondence from his Grand Tour filled with enthusiastic descriptions of Continental wonders, missives from London seasons recounting social conquests and political observations.
The handwriting was unmistakably his own, yet the voice within the letters belonged to a stranger—a young man of boundless confidence and limitless prospects, untouched by suffering and secure in his place within the world.
How casually I inhabited that life, Alexander thought, tracing a finger over a particularly exuberant passage describing a successful foxhunt. How certain I was of my rightful claim to happiness and success.
He closed the volume with careful precision, returning it to its place before withdrawing another marked Military Correspondence—1812 . This held fewer letters; communications interrupted by the ugly and predictable vicissitudes of war, many likely lost in the chaotic postal systems of the Peninsula campaign.
The final letter, dated merely weeks before his injury, concluded with a passage that struck him now with painful irony:
I look forward to relating these adventures in person when next we meet, Father. The stories one cannot commit to paper for reasons of military discretion will, I assure you, provide ample entertainment during winter evenings at Balfour Abbey for years to come.
Alexander replaced the volume with careful control, though his hand trembled slightly with suppressed emotion. Those promised stories would remain forever untold—his father had died before his return, and his own voice had been silenced by choice if not necessity, locked away with the memories too painful to revisit even in the privacy of his own thoughts.
A smaller case at the rear of the cabinet drew his attention next—his personal collection of musical compositions, carefully copied in his own hand during happier days. He withdrew it with reluctance, anticipating the sharp edge of loss that accompanied all reminders of his former passion for music.
Another death unmarked by any proper mourning, he thought, splaying his fingers across the notations that had once translated to sound beneath his touch. The musician within me perished on that Spanish field alongside the soldier, the socialite, the son my father recognized. Yet the body persists, a shell housing only fragments of the man who once inhabited it.
Alexander closed the music case with deliberate gentleness, returning it to its place before locking the cabinet with a decisive turn of the key. Enough indulgence in what cannot be recovered, he admonished himself. Self-pity is a luxury afforded to lesser men, not the Earl of Aldeburgh.
The familiar mantra—one his father would have approved—provided scant comfort as the afternoon stretched before him, empty of purpose yet laden with the peculiar exhaustion that accompanied his increasingly frequent retreats into memory. He moved to the window, watching raindrops trace meandering paths down glass panes like tears on a transparent cheek.
A movement in the gardens below caught his attention—a slender figure in a pearl-gray walking dress and practical boots, navigating the gravel paths with determined strides despite the inclement weather. Sophia Sinclair, apparently undeterred by either rain or his cancellation, had ventured outdoors with a large sketchbook protected beneath a voluminous black umbrella.
Does the woman never rest? Alexander wondered, reluctant admiration mingling with irritation. He observed her pause beneath a massive oak tree, its new spring foliage providing additional shelter as she balanced the sketchbook against her knee in order to capture some aspect of the rain-washed landscape.
There was something compelling in her complete absorption, the intensity of her focus as she worked seemingly oblivious to the dampness that must have been seeping through her boots and the hem of her dress. Lady Sinclair appeared remarkably unconcerned with potential damage to her appearance or attire when artistic opportunity presented itself.
A working professional rather than a society lady, Alexander reminded himself, though the distinction seemed increasingly irrelevant the longer he observed her. Whatever her current circumstances, Sophia Sinclair possessed the innate dignity and composure of true gentility—qualities that transcended financial status or social position.
He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what she had been like before widowhood and financial distress had forced her transformation from society wife to working artist. Had she laughed easily? Had her eyes always held that combination of perception and kindness? Had she been content in her marriage to Lieutenant Sinclair, or had it been merely a sensible arrangement shattered by war’s arbitrary cruelty?
Questions without purpose or relevance, he chided himself, turning deliberately away from the window and the unsettling direction of his thoughts. Lady Sinclair’s past holds no bearing on our temporary professional association.
The remainder of the afternoon passed in restless activity punctuated by increasingly frequent glances toward the tall case clock in the corner. Each chime marked another hour of self-imposed isolation, another hour of wondering what Lady Sinclair might be doing, another hour of questioning his own decision to withdraw from their scheduled session.
By four o’clock, a pervasive restlessness had settled into Alexander ‘s bones, driving him from study to library to drawing room in search of distraction. The rain had finally ceased, leaving the gardens gleaming with crystalline droplets beneath watery sunshine, yet he found himself reluctant to venture outdoors where he might encounter Lady Sinclair on her return from whatever artistic expedition had occupied her afternoon.
Instead, he retreated once more to his study, ringing a bell for tea. It arrived quickly, accompanied by a small selection of honey cakes that Alexander recognized as his childhood favorite—a transparent attempt by Mrs. Peabody, the cook, to tempt his consistently poor appetite.
The consideration irritated and touched him in equal measure, a reminder of the household’s quiet but persistent care despite his withdrawal from meaningful interaction.
He had just poured the first cup when a hesitant knock disturbed his carefully constructed solitude. Likely Gregory, he thought with resignation, come to express disappointment at my cancellation and urge renewed cooperation with his protégée.
He knocked on the wood of the table twice in response and the door opened to reveal not Gregory’s familiar tall figure but the small, neat form of Abigail , Lady Sinclair’s lady’s maid. The Scottish girl hesitated on the threshold, her expressive face betraying a mixture of determination and trepidation as she clutched a folded note in her gloved hand.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said, her lips forming the words with careful clarity that suggested Lady Sinclair had instructed her regarding communication. “I’ve a message from my mistress.”
Alexander gestured for her to approach, curiosity temporarily overriding his irritation at the interruption. The maid crossed the room with quick movements, presenting the folded paper with a brief curtsy before retreating to a respectful distance.
The hand was unmistakably Lady Sinclair’s, the elegant script both feminine and decisive:
Lord Aldeburgh,
I trust this finds you recovered from the pressing business that prevented our scheduled session. When you feel able, might I entreat you to join me in the music room? I have taken a liberty that I hope will not cause offense but rather might offer a more congenial environment for our work together.
With sincere regards, Sophia Sinclair
Alexander read the note twice, searching for any hint of reproach or disappointment between the carefully composed lines. Finding none, he felt an unexpected twinge of shame at his own behavior. Whatever her private thoughts regarding his transparent excuse, Lady Sinclair had maintained both dignity and kindness in her response—qualities that made his own retreat seem increasingly childish by comparison.
He glanced up to find Abigail watching him with surprising directness for a servant, her expression suggesting she awaited some response to convey to her mistress.
“ Thank you ,” he scribbled in the notebook that had become somewhat of a third hand to him. “ Please inform Lady Sinclair that I shall attend her shortly .”
The maid’s face brightened with evident relief, suggesting that his response had been hoped for rather than merely anticipated. She curtsied again, more deeply this time, before withdrawing with the same efficient grace that characterized all her movements.
Alone once more, Alexander considered the note with mingled curiosity and apprehension. What “liberty” had Lady Sinclair taken? The music room had been closed since his return from Spain, the piano within untouched save by the housemaids who dusted its silent keys with weekly regularity. He had avoided the chamber entirely, unwilling to confront the cruelty of a mute instrument to a deaf musician.
Yet now Lady Sinclair has chosen it for some purpose, he thought, rising from his desk with reluctant determination. And after a day of hiding in my study like a petulant schoolboy, I can hardly refuse her summons without confirming myself as utterly without manners or courage.
His reflection in the study’s small mirror revealed the consequences of a day spent in solitary brooding: hair disheveled from running agitated fingers through it, cravat loosened and slightly askew, waistcoat bearing a small ink stain from his earlier correspondence. With swift, economical movements, he restored order to his appearance, guided by the ingrained habits of a gentleman even in the absence of anticipated company.
Not that Lady Sinclair would comment upon such lapses, he acknowledged grudgingly. She has shown remarkable restraint in overlooking my various discourtesies.
The journey from study to music room required traversing much of the house’s western wing, a passage that offered ample opportunity for Alexander to reconsider his decision. Yet something in Lady Sinclair’s note—the absence of expectation, perhaps, or the simple directness of her invitation—propelled him forward despite his misgivings.
He paused outside the music room’s closed door, steeling himself for the onslaught of memories that awaited within. How many hours had he spent in this chamber during happier days?
How many winter evenings had passed in the simple pleasure of fingers upon keys, creating beauty through disciplined skill? How many moments of genuine communion with his father had occurred in this room, where his father’s appreciation for his son’s musical talent had found its fullest expression?
It matters not; he told himself firmly. That life is gone. This visit is merely a courtesy to a professional woman who has been subjected to inexcusable rudeness by her patron.
With that meager fortification, Alexander opened the door, prepared to confront whatever awaited him with the stoic resignation that had become his most constant companion.
The transformation was so complete, so unexpected, that Alexander found himself frozen upon the threshold, his prepared expression of polite indifference giving way to undisguised astonishment.
The music room—once dominated by the grand pianoforte that had been his mother’s wedding gift to his father—had been utterly reimagined. The instrument remained, though it was draped in rich burgundy fabric that concealed its keyboard and transformed it from musical device to elegant table.
Upon this improvised surface stood an array of artistic implements arranged with meticulous care: brushes of varying sizes nested in porcelain holders, pots of pigments organized by color family, palettes prepared with preliminary mixtures awaiting use.
Near the tall windows that overlooked the western gardens stood two easels, angled to capture the afternoon light that streamed through recently cleaned glass. Canvas had been stretched across one frame, its pristine surface ready to receive the commissioned portrait, while the other held a partially completed landscape that Alexander recognized as the view from his coastal walking path.
Where his father’s music stand had once stood, a small bookcase now housed what appeared to be artistic references—volumes on technique, anatomy, and composition, alongside portfolios of prints and sketches. Once the servants had caught wind of her plan, they must have all been eager to help.
Even the furniture had been rearranged; the heavy velvet drapes drawn back to maximize natural light and comfortable chairs positioned to allow rest between working sessions.
The chamber that had once served as sanctuary for his musical pursuits had been transformed into an artist’s atelier—a space designed with evident care to accommodate the work commissioned by Gregory—while sparing Alexander the exposure of having his portrait created in more public rooms of the house.
Amid this remarkable transformation stood Sophia Sinclair, her expression betraying anxious anticipation as she awaited his reaction. Her lady’s maid hovered nearby, hands clasped before her apron
She fears she has overstepped, Alexander realized with sudden clarity. That this reclamation of unused space might offend rather than please.
The recognition of her vulnerability—this proud, talented woman uncertain whether her considerable effort would be met with approval or rebuke—stirred something long dormant within Alexander ‘s chest. For the first time in months, he felt an emotion other than bitter resignation or smoldering resentment: simple, uncomplicated gratitude.
“Lord Aldeburgh,” Lady Sinclair said, a smile appearing on her countenance. “Thank you for coming. I hope you’ll forgive the liberty I’ve taken with this room. Lord Camden mentioned it had fallen into disuse, and the light is quite perfect for our purpose.”
She appeared slightly flushed, whether from exertion or nervousness Alexander could not determine, and a streak of blue pigment marked one cheek where she had apparently touched her face with paint-stained fingers. Curiously, that small imperfection rendered her more appealing, evidence of genuine labor rather than mere supervision of the transformation.
Alexander became aware that he had been staring without response for an unconscionable period. With swift, slightly unsteady movements, he withdrew his notebook and pencil, writing with more care than usual:
The transformation is remarkable and most thoughtfully executed. Far from causing offense, your initiative has provided the perfect solution to a challenge I had not fully articulated even to myself.
He hesitated, then added: I must apologize for my earlier cancellation.
He passed her the notebook, watching as her eyes moved across the page. The transformation of her expression from anxiety to relief to quiet pleasure affected him more deeply than he cared to acknowledge, creating a curious lightness in his chest where leaden resignation had dwelled for so long.
“Thank you,” she said simply, returning the notebook with a smile that reached her eyes, transforming her from merely handsome to genuinely beautiful. She spoke slowly, providing him ample opportunity to read her lips. “Your approval means a great deal. Abigail and I spent most of the day making the arrangements—with Mrs. Potter’s assistance regarding the heavier items, of course.”
Alexander glanced toward the maid, including her in his nod of appreciation. The Scottish girl blushed slightly at the direct acknowledgment, curtsying again before busying herself with some minute adjustment to an already perfectly arranged set of brushes.
How long has it been, Alexander wondered with sudden clarity, since I truly saw the people around me as individuals rather than mere extensions of my own diminished existence?
The question disturbed him sufficiently that he turned away, ostensibly to examine the arrangement of easels by the window. The landscape on the second easel captured his attention.
It was a skillful rendering of the cove below Balfour Abbey: the tumultuous sea depicted with remarkable energy, despite the careful control of the brushwork. Lady Sinclair had captured the quality of light that occurred only in late afternoon, when the sun’s descent transformed the water from pewter to molten gold near the horizon.
“Do you approve?” Lady Sinclair asked, moving to stand beside him with a respectful distance maintained between them. She turned to face him. “I took the liberty of exploring the coastal path yesterday and found the view quite compelling. The interaction of land and sea creates such fascinating tensions—stability against constant change, permanence against eternal motion.”
Alexander found himself nodding, struck by her articulation of precisely what had drawn him to that spot during his solitary walks. He wrote quickly: You have captured it perfectly. The quality of light especially.
“You’re very kind,” she replied, though her expression suggested she valued his assessment as genuine criticism rather than mere politeness. “I found myself thinking of Turner’s seascapes while working on it, though my modest talents can scarcely aspire to such mastery.”
The self-deprecation struck Alexander as entirely unnecessary given the evidence before him, yet he recognized in it the same social modesty expected of accomplished women. It was a curious parallel to his own reflexive dismissal of his artistic and musical talents in company, despite private pride in his abilities.
Not Turner, perhaps, he wrote, but possessed of its own distinct merit. You see the sea as it truly is, not merely as convention dictates it should be portrayed.
A faint blush colored her cheeks at the direct praise, reminding Alexander that despite her professional status, Lady Sinclair remained a gentlewoman unaccustomed to such forthright assessment from a relative stranger. He hastily redirected his attention to the prepared canvas on the primary easel.
“I thought we might begin with a simple sitting today,” she suggested, following his gaze. “Nothing taxing. Merely an opportunity to start making a few sketches of your face, make sure that I capture every detail as well as I can. The actual work of painting can commence tomorrow, if that suits you.”
The prospect of being scrutinized as a subject still discomfited Alexander, yet the environment Lady Sinclair had created was private, thoughtfully arranged, tailored specifically to his comfort, and rendered the idea significantly less daunting than it had seemed that morning.
He nodded his agreement, allowing her to guide him to the chair positioned near the window. The arrangement provided him a clear view of the gardens rather than a blank wall or, worse, a mirror that would force him to confront his own image throughout the sitting. Another small consideration that spoke volumes about Lady Sinclair’s perceptiveness regarding his sensitivities.
“Perfect,” she declared once he was settled, her professional assessment apparently approving of his natural posture. “The light catches your profile beautifully from this angle. Abigail, would you be so kind as to bring the smaller easel a bit closer? Yes, just there.” Alexander couldn’t help but notice Lady Sinclair kept her gaze on him, to allow him to read her lips regardless of who she was speaking to.
The maid complied with swift efficiency, positioning the secondary easel within arm’s reach of Lady Sinclair’s primary workstation. Upon it she placed a smaller canvas, already prepared with some preliminary work that Alexander could not quite discern from his position.
“I prefer to work on two scales simultaneously,” Lady Sinclair explained, noting his curious glance. “The larger canvas for the formal portrait, and a smaller study that allows for more immediate experimentation with technique and expression. I find it helps capture the essence of the subject while the more formal work progresses at its necessarily slower pace.”
The explanation, delivered with professional confidence rather than apologetic deference, offered a glimpse of the woman Lady Sinclair might have been had circumstances not forced her into financial dependence on the patronage of others. She would have made a formidable society hostess, Alexander thought with reluctant admiration, had fate granted her the security to cultivate such a role.
“Now,” she continued, selecting a pencil with careful deliberation, “if you would be so kind as to turn slightly toward the window—yes, precisely so—and perhaps rest your hand upon the arm of the chair in a natural position...”
The next hour passed with surprising swiftness as Lady Sinclair worked with quiet concentration, occasionally offering gentle direction regarding his position but otherwise allowing comfortable silence to prevail. Alexander found the experience less onerous than anticipated; her focus remained on her work rather than on him personally, her occasional glances analytical rather than pitying.
The lady’s maid withdrew after the initial arrangements were complete, murmuring something about assisting with dinner preparations that Alexander did not fully catch. Her departure left him alone with Lady Sinclair, a circumstance that would have raised eyebrows in London drawing rooms but seemed entirely unremarkable given the professional nature of their association.
As the light began to soften toward evening, Lady Sinclair set aside her materials with evident reluctance. “We should conclude for today,” she said, her lips forming the words clearly for his benefit. “The changing light makes consistent work impossible, and I would not wish to tire you with an overly lengthy first session.”
Alexander rose, stretching subtly to relieve the mild stiffness of maintained posture. He moved to examine her progress, curious despite himself to see how she had begun to interpret his likeness.
The initial work on the larger canvas consisted primarily of compositional sketching—the basic structure of his figure against a background not yet fully realized. Yet even these preliminary lines suggested a dignity he had not expected, a certain quiet strength in the set of the shoulders and the angle of the head that bore little resemblance to the broken man he glimpsed in mirrors.
The smaller study had progressed further, his features rendered with swift, confident strokes that captured not merely his appearance but something of his essential nature. There was melancholy in the eyes, yes, but also intelligence, resilience, and a complexity that suggested depths beyond immediate perception.
Is this truly how she sees me? Alexander wondered, startled by the disconnect between her interpretation and his own perception of himself. Not as the ruined remnant of a once-complete man, but as someone still possessed of substance and worth?
Lady Sinclair watched his assessment with the carefully neutral expression of an artist awaiting criticism, her hands clasped before her to prevent nervous movement. The vulnerability implicit in that controlled stillness moved him unexpectedly.
This woman of genuine talent opening herself to judgment from a man whose only qualification was the accident of birth and wealth that had placed him in a position to commission her work.
It is remarkable, he wrote, choosing his words with care. You have seen more than I expected—perhaps more than I wished to have seen.
She studied his note, her expression thoughtful rather than pleased by the ambiguous compliment. “A portrait should reveal truth, not merely appearance,” she replied after a moment’s consideration. “Though I understand if the prospect discomfits you. We can adopt a more conventional approach if you prefer.”
The offer of retreat—of returning to the safe artifice of formal portraiture that captured position rather than person—hung between them like an unopened door. Alexander considered it briefly, tempted by the safety it promised, before reluctantly shaking his head.
Continue as you have begun, he wrote. Truth, however uncomfortable, holds more value than comfortable falsehood.
Something flickered in her eyes at his response. Perhaps approval, or recognition of shared values, but her professional composure quickly reasserted itself. “Thank you for your trust,” she said simply. “Shall we continue tomorrow? Perhaps beginning after breakfast, when the light is favorable?”
Alexander nodded, surprising himself with the genuine anticipation he felt at the prospect. The day that had begun in withdrawal and self-imposed isolation now concluded with an unexpected sense of... not happiness, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Purpose, perhaps. Engagement with a world beyond his own suffering.
As he wrote a brief note of agreement and thanks for the day’s session, he found himself considering a novel possibility: that Sophia Sinclair, with her quiet competence and perceptive gaze, might offer more than merely a commissioned portrait. She had already transformed an abandoned room haunted by memories of his former self into a space of new purpose and potential.
Might she, he wondered as he departed the newly christened atelier, perform a similar transformation upon its reluctant occupant?
The question accompanied him as he returned to his chambers to dress for dinner. He suddenly found himself willing to attend, despite the prospect of Lady Aldeburgh’s perpetual disapproval, and Gregory’s undoubted smugness at this apparent success of his matchmaking scheme.
Not matchmaking, Alexander corrected himself firmly as Jenkins assisted him into evening attire. Professional association, nothing more. The fact that Lady Sinclair happens to be a beautiful, intelligent widow of appropriate age is entirely irrelevant to our strictly artistic connection.
The argument sounded quite thin even within the privacy of his own thoughts, but Alexander chose not to examine it too closely. It would not do, he thought, to even attempt to think of it. Why would a woman like Lady Sinclair think, even for a minute, of me in a capacity such as that? I am far too broken for her wholeness.
Still, even though he knew there was no hope, he could not deny that for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he faced an evening, a day, a week ahead with something other than resignation.
It was enough, for now, that Sophia Sinclair had worked a small miracle in the music room. Whether she might work a larger one upon its occupant remained to be seen.