4135.246 · September 3, 1815 AD
A Fraction Too High
The suit does not fit properly. The coat pulls across the shoulders, the waistcoat sits too high, the cravat refuses to hold its shape despite four attempts. William walks beside Silas through the darkening streets, their boots striking the uneven ground in a rhythm that feels too loud, too conspicuous. The Harding residence glows amber in the last light of the setting sun. Twenty yards from the gate, William's feet simply stop moving.
He cannot do this.
The words emerge before William can stop them, raw and honest in a way he had not intended. He hears the fear beneath them—the certainty of failure, the conviction that the moment he walks through that door, someone will see through him.
Silas grips his shoulder hard enough to hurt.
He tells William about Bristol. About being nineteen, wearing a suit that cost more than his mother spent on food in a year, surrounded by men born to wealth he couldn't imagine. About the absolute certainty that they would recognise the boy from the wrong side of the family, the nephew taken in out of obligation, the pretender with no business at their table.
And nothing happened. They saw what he showed them. They made judgments based on what was in front of them, not the fears he was carrying inside.
The men in that room aren't waiting to expose you, Silas says. They're waiting to assess you. And that's a test you can pass.
William looks at the glowing windows, the closed door, the boundary between worlds.
He thinks of the warehouse. The key in his pocket. The future they've planned.
He steps across the threshold.
The door closes behind him.
