Chapter 16 - The Mantle Weakens

Morning arrived softly, as if the house itself wanted to wake Lucy gently. Pale gold light slipped across her quilt, warming her cheek before she even opened her eyes. Sam was already awake, sitting on her chest like a furry boulder of judgment. He chirped once, booped her chin with a cold nose, and hopped off with a tail flick that said, finally.

Lucy stretched, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The last traces of her uneasy dreams had faded. In their place was something quieter, more centered. The land’s hum had followed her into sleep and was still there now, soft as a pulse under her ribs.

Footsteps. The smell of coffee. Something buttered and warm. Sam nearly vibrated with anticipation as he trotted ahead, leading her downstairs as though he had personally cooked breakfast and needed to ensure proper applause.

The kitchen was already alive.

Mrs. Hughes stood at the stove, humming a tune that curled through the warm air like a ribbon. Jason sat at the table, coffee cupped in both hands, posture relaxed in a way she had never seen before. His usual soldier’s readiness had softened into something peaceful.

He nodded. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she said, smiling back.

Mrs. Hughes beamed. “Sit, love. Eggs will be done in a moment. Toast is ready. And I made blackberry jam because you look like a girl who needs blackberry jam.”

Sam meowed in loud agreement.

Lucy took her usual seat. Jason glanced up from his mug. “You sleep alright?”

“I did,” she said. “Better than I expected.”

He gave a small nod. “Good.”

Timothy arrived a moment later. He moved with his usual quiet grace, but Lucy saw it immediately. The faint tremor in his hand as he reached for a cup. The breath he hesitated over before sitting. He masked it with a polite smile, but her chest tightened.

Mrs. Hughes saw it too. Her spoon stilled for half a heartbeat before she cleared her throat and resumed cooking.

When Timothy finally lowered himself into a chair, he exhaled softly through his nose, as though steadying himself.

Lucy met his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Just old bones, Miss Lucy,” he said. “They creak louder in the mornings.” But the smile did not reach his eyes.

Breakfast unfolded with warmth anyway. Eggs soft and steaming, toast slathered with jam so vibrant it almost glowed. Jason ate with a quiet appreciation, clearly unused to food made with this much care. He and Mrs. Hughes talked easily about the garden beds and the shape of the weather coming in.

Lucy watched Timothy out of the corner of her eye. He joined the conversation when spoken to, but whenever his gaze drifted, his focus slipped a little, as if listening for something far away.

When breakfast finished, Jason offered to help with dishes, but Mrs. Hughes swatted him away gently. “Go on, dear. Stretch those legs before they go stiff.”

Jason chuckled and headed outside.

Timothy disappeared into the hall, his steps steady but faint.

Lucy stayed behind.

Mrs. Hughes washed plates with brisk motions, but her jaw was tight.

“You’re fussing,” Lucy said softly. “You keep wiping the same bit of counter.”

Mrs. Hughes froze, then huffed. “Caught me.”

“Is he alright?” Lucy asked.

Mrs. Hughes looked toward the hall. “He’s been dimming for years now. Like a lantern that burns just fine in daylight but flickers at night. He hides it well, but I’ve eyes enough to see him stumble.” She set the plate down, water dripping from her hands. “He stands straighter when you’re near, though. Smiles more. That tells me things are shifting.”

Lucy bit her lip. “Do you know what he is? Truly?”

Mrs. Hughes dried her hands slowly. “I’ve known he wasn’t like the rest of us since the day I arrived. But I never needed details. Timothy has always been himself. Steady. Still. A bit like the old oaks. You don’t ask why an oak stands. You just trust that it does.”

Lucy nodded, warmed by the simple truth of it.

Mrs. Hughes reached out and brushed a crumb from her sleeve. “Whatever he is, love, he has never been anything but good.”

Lucy placed her hand over hers. “Thank you.”

“Off you go,” Mrs. Hughes said, shooing her lightly. “He’s waiting for you. Even if he doesn’t know it.”

Lucy found Timothy in the west hallway near the tall window that overlooked the gardens. Morning light fell across him in a soft wash, catching the silver in his hair and the quiet lines at the corners of his eyes. His posture was upright, but when he turned toward her, his breath caught in a way he could not quite disguise.

“Miss Lucy,” he said, warm and composed. “You look troubled.”

She stepped closer. “Mrs. Hughes says you have been dimming.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Mrs. Hughes notices everything. It is one of her gifts.”

“That is not an answer,” Lucy said softly.

Timothy folded his hands behind his back, an old gesture of dignity. “I am well enough.”

“Timothy.” Her voice lowered with concern. “I saw your hand tremble this morning. You hesitated before you sat. Something is wrong.”

He held her gaze for a breath before looking back out the window. “Even the strongest structures creak with time. I am no exception.”

“That sounds like you are avoiding the truth.”

A thin breath escaped him, almost weary. “Avoidance is not my intention. I simply do not wish to burden you.”

“You are not a burden,” she said gently. “You never could be.”

His expression shifted, touched by something quiet and tender. “You are kind to say so.”

Lucy stepped closer, her worry sharpening. “Are you ill?”

“Not ill,” he said softly. “Simply… tired.”

“Tired how?”

Timothy searched for words, then shook his head with a small, apologetic smile. “There are parts of my life that cannot be explained in pieces. They must be spoken as a whole, when the time is right.”

Lucy felt the truth in that. Not secrecy, but protection.

“Is the time soon?” she asked.

His eyes warmed, gratitude flickering there. “Soon,” he said. “You are walking toward the shape of answers, Miss Lucy. Let them come gently.”

Lucy swallowed, tension easing and tightening at once.

Timothy straightened a little, though she could see the effort in the motion. “Today is a day for calm. The land feels steady, and you should feel steady with it. Do not let worry outrun truth.”

“But you are weakening,” she said quietly.

“Some mornings take more from me than others,” he admitted. “But I am here. Entirely here.”

That steadied her more than she expected.

He nodded toward the garden path. “Evan has been near the stables for some time now. He seems… unsettled.”

Lucy frowned. “About what?”

“He did not say.” Timothy’s gaze softened with quiet amusement. “He rarely does, at least not at first.”

Lucy exhaled. “Should I talk to him?”

“I believe he hopes you will,” Timothy said. “Though he may not admit it.”

Lucy hesitated, wanting to press further but sensing he had reached the limit of what he would share.

He inclined his head, gentle and steady. “When the moment comes, Miss Lucy, I will tell you everything.”

Lucy nodded softly. “Alright.”

She left him in the wash of morning light, his figure steady but shadowed at the edges, like a lantern holding through the last hours before dawn.

She found Evan in the stables, oiling the hinges of an old stall door. The morning light filtered through slats in thin, warm stripes. Dust motes drifted lazily. Evan’s focus was so complete that he startled when he finally noticed her.

“Miss Lucy,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sorry, just fixing this latch. It’s been squeaking.”

Lucy smiled softly. “Evan, do you have a moment?”

He nodded, though his hand drifted to the back of his neck in a gesture of mild nerves. “Course.”

Lucy leaned against a beam, letting the quiet settle for a breath. “How long have you worked here?”

Evan chuckled. “Since before your Aunt Lilly was tall enough to reach the pantry shelf. Her da hired me on as a stable boy. I grew up with the place, you might say.”

“That long,” Lucy murmured, absorbing the weight of it.

He nodded, eyes distant with memory. “Long enough to watch generations come and go. Long enough to see the Hall change its moods.”

Lucy hesitated, then asked quietly, “So you knew my mother.”

“Since she was knee-high,” Evan said warmly. “Used to sneak sugar cubes to the ponies, claiming she was helping them grow taller.” His smile softened with the memory. “She had a heart that ran ahead of her feet.”

Lucy’s laugh came gently. “Sounds like her.”

Evan set the oil can aside. His gaze drifted toward the far end of the stable, as though looking through years instead of shadows. “I watched her leave,” he said quietly. “Watched Lilly leave earlier still. Watched Timothy stay when everyone else grew older around him.”

Lucy’s breath held. “So you knew he was… different.”

Evan shrugged in a way that was more acceptance than indifference. “Didn’t need a name for it. When something walks through decades without changing more than a few wrinkles, you stop trying to explain it. You just respect it.”

Lucy absorbed that in silence, feeling her chest tighten with understanding and mystery in equal measure.

She lifted her eyes to his. “Do you know what I am?”

Evan paused, the rag still in his hand. His expression softened, not with fear or doubt, but with a quiet sincerity that made the moment feel heavier.

“I know the ground warmed the day you arrived,” he said slowly. “I know the herbs in the kitchen garden perked up like they’d been waiting for someone. I know Timothy smiles softer. And I know this place… breathes easier now.”

He met her gaze without hesitation. “I don’t need more than that.”

Lucy felt something in her chest loosen, as if someone had gently taken a weight she didn’t realize she carried.

Evan wiped his hands again, more out of habit than need, and returned to the hinge with calm precision. As if their conversation had settled something old inside him. As if nothing about her frightened him. As if her presence was simply another truth of the land he tended.

Lucy watched him a moment longer before stepping out into the sunlight, her heart steadier than when she’d entered.

Lucy walked back toward the lawn where Jason was stretching after his morning training. He wiped sweat from his brow and offered her a small smile.

“You survived breakfast,” he said.

“Barely,” Lucy replied. “Mrs. Hughes tried to smother me with jam.”

Jason chuckled. “There are worse ways to go.”

They sat together on the low stone wall near the sundial. The morning had turned crisp. A bird called softly from the hedgerow, its note drifting through the quiet.

Lucy let the silence settle before speaking. “Jason… can I ask you something? Personal?”

He nodded once. “Sure.”

“Do you have family?” she asked gently.

Jason’s gaze dropped to his hands. “My folks passed. Dad before I deployed. Mom after I came back. Heart failure, but… she was lonely without him.” His voice thinned slightly. “I don’t have siblings. Just distant cousins up north. We exchange holiday cards when we remember.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Why so distant?”

He gave a small, rueful smile. “I didn’t fit, even before the military. Quiet kid in a loud house. After I came back from Iraq, people looked at me differently. Like they weren’t sure which part of me made it home.” He shrugged lightly. “Easier to keep moving than explain yourself every time someone tilts their head.”

Lucy felt a tug of empathy, deep and steady. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly.

Jason looked at her then, fully. “Me too.”

Lucy hesitated, choosing her next words with care. “Timothy said… this place feels different with you in it.” She paused, watching his expression. “I think he meant it as a good thing.”

Jason blinked. “So that’s why the ground feels… settled sometimes? Like everything gets quiet for a second?” He shook his head, embarrassed. “I thought I was imagining it.”

Lucy smiled gently. “You’re not the only one noticing things.”

Jason drew in a breath, steadying himself. “Whatever Timothy needs, whatever you need… I’ll stand with you. Even if I don’t understand any of this yet.”

Lucy touched his arm lightly, grounding them both. “You don’t have to understand it right now. Just be who you already are.”

A small, grateful nod. His shoulders eased, just slightly, as if the morning light had softened something inside him.

The rest of the day moved quietly. Small tasks filled the hours, nothing heavy. Lucy walked through the gardens once more, feeling the steady calm in the ground with each step, the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from her.

That night, after the house settled into its usual stillness, she climbed into bed. Sam circled once at her feet before curling into a warm, purring shape. Lucy’s breathing evened out not long after, the weight of the day easing into sleep.

Downstairs, in the empty kitchen, Timothy stood alone.

He reached for the counter, intending only to steady himself while the kettle cooled, but a sudden heaviness swept through him. His knees weakened. He caught the back of a chair before he slipped, fingers tightening around the wood as his breath snagged in his chest.

For a moment the room blurred at the edges. Not spinning, just dimming, as though his strength had stepped out of reach.

The house creaked softly. Not the sound of settling beams. Something more attentive, like it had noticed him falter.

Timothy bowed his head, eyes closed. His voice came low.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “She is not ready.”

The kitchen grew still again. Quiet, steady, almost patient.

He drew one careful breath, then another, and pushed himself upright. His balance returned slowly but held.

Timothy rested a hand on the counter until the last of the weakness passed.

When he finally stepped away, the house remained quiet around him, offering nothing more than its steady presence.