4141.222 · August 10, 1821 AD
The First Lie to Innocence
Between the kitchen and the drawing room, the corridor offers no sanctuary. Just a small boy with his father's eyes and a question that has no good answer. He still believes the world is simple—that Papa will appear if only the right words are spoken. Madelyn kneels on exhausted legs and speaks the first lie she'll tell to protect him. Children's resilience won't last. Soon he'll notice the whispers. And what will she tell him then?
The corridor seems longer than remembered, shadows deeper. Madelyn's thoughts circle—east wing, voices at midnight, a thud—so absorbed she nearly collides with Miss Fletcher steadying young William, who toddles with the determined unsteadiness of legs not yet confident.
He reaches for her. Blue eyes that shift like his father's between light and shadow. She kneels despite muscles exhausted by the morning's strain, gathering him close. For one moment there's nothing else—no empty bed, no letter, no midnight voices. Just this solid weight of her son.
Then he pushes back to see her face. Children need to confirm the world is arranged as expected. His brow furrows in that manner so like William's her breath catches. The question arrives inevitable as sunrise, striking like a blow.
She tells the lie. Papa had to go away for a little while. He considers this with solemn gravity, then nods. Satisfied. Children's resilience—their ability to accept explanations that would never satisfy adult minds—won't last.
Soon he'll notice whispers, worried glances. Soon he'll understand something terrible happened even if no one will explain what.
Miss Fletcher stands watching—young, placid, giving nothing away. Her very competence whilst the household disintegrates speaks to self-possession beyond mere training.
