Charles
Charles was three today.
He knew because the whole house smelled like cinnamon cakes and violets. Because Cook had let him lick frosting from a silver spoon before breakfast. Because Mama kissed him twice on each cheek and called him "her little man."
And because there were ribbons everywhere — on doorknobs, chair legs, and even the old grumpy dog's tail, which made Nanny laugh and Papa frown.
The Morning
He liked the mornings best — when the house was quiet, the fire still whispering, and Mama let him sit in her lap while she brushed his hair.
"Three already," she murmured into his curls. "You're growing too fast."
He didn't know what too fast meant. But he liked when she said it, because she said it with that faraway smile she only used for him.
Mama smelled like lavender and paper. She read him books about foxes and forests, even when Papa said it was too soon for "fantastical nonsense."
Charles liked the nonsense. Especially when she did the voices.
Papa
He respected Papa.
That's what Nanny said: "You must respect your father."
And he did — Papa was tall, loud, and always wore gloves. He had medals in a locked box Charles wasn't allowed to touch, and sometimes he came home late smelling like cigars and storms.
Charles loved him. But he also feared him, just a little.
Especially when Papa's eyes got tight and cold, usually after he looked at Mama too long when she was quiet.
Uncle Leo
Uncle Leopold was his favorite.
He brought sweets hidden in his coat pocket and let Charles sit on his shoulders to see the moon. He had a strange way of talking — like reading a story out loud, even when he wasn't — but Charles liked that.
He never rushed. He never raised his voice.
Sometimes he sat with Mama after dinner, speaking softly about "stars and scholars and Greek things." Charles didn't understand, but it made Mama's voice sound like music.
The Birthday
The manor was buzzing. Maids carried flower garlands, and a tent was going up on the lawn. Guests would arrive by carriage. There would be cakes, and music, and a puppet show, and maybe even ponies.
But Charles didn't care about the gifts or the ponies.
He cared that Mama had picked out his blue velvet coat, brushed his hair twice, and held his hand all morning.
He felt like a prince.
Her prince.
The Visitor
Charles had wandered farther than Nanny allowed.
The garden felt like a maze today — golden sunlight spilled through the hedges, and the wind whispered in the ivy. He followed the rustling sounds and the flutter of butterflies, the way Mama always said he should follow stories.
He found himself near the old iron gate, the one behind the greenhouse where no one really went. The path was overgrown, the roses half-wild.
And that's when he saw him.
A man stood just beyond the gate, coat dusted with travel, one strap of a leather satchel slung across his chest. He looked… tired, and yet oddly still — like a statue half-awake, caught between past and present.
He wasn't dressed like the other guests.
He wasn't smiling.
But he was looking right at Charles.
The boy didn't run.
Something inside him — small and knowing — told him not to be afraid. The man had kind eyes, even if he looked like he hadn't seen sunlight in a long time.
They stared at each other, both oddly still.
Then Charles took a cautious step forward, head tilted.
"Are you lost?" he asked, voice soft and curious.
The man crouched slowly to meet his eye level, his face shifting into something painfully gentle.
"No," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small wooden carving — a fox. Worn at the edges, smooth from being handled. He held it out to Charles like a peace offering.
Charles gasped and took it carefully. "It's like the one in Mama's storybook…"
At the mention of Mama, something flickered in the man's face. His breath hitched — a sound so small it might have been lost in the wind.
Jason looked at Charles more closely — really looked.
The boy's eyes were a familiar shade of blue, deep and watchful, framed by long lashes. There was a softness in his expression that Jason had only ever seen in one other person.
And suddenly, it all fit.
The curve of his mouth.
The delicate tilt of his head.
Even the silence — patient, unafraid — as if the boy knew things beyond his years.
Jason's breath caught.
There was no doubt.
He was hers.
The realization didn't crash into him — it settled like a stone at the bottom of a still lake. Heavy. Final. Inescapable.
His features were faint echoes of the Ashbourne bloodline — but his soul…
That belonged to her.
The man swallowed hard.
"What's your name?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Charles," the boy said proudly. "Today's my birthday."
A silence bloomed.
Jason felt something inside him fall to its knees.
Of course. Of course today would be the day fate circled back.
"I'm… a friend of your mother's," he said, his voice almost trembling with restraint.
Charles smiled. "You can come say hello. She's this way."
Jason hesitated. His hand gripped the gate as if to steady himself.
But the child had already turned, trusting, guiding him back down the path like a little candle leading a ghost home.
And Jason — the man who had vanished without a word — followed.
Not knowing what waited.
Only that it was time.