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“Evander! You have arrived at last.”

I find Richard sitting on the damask sofa, his shoulders still a bit hunched, his pale face dotted with red from the recent ailment.

Beside him are Nathaniel and little Cecil, who is perched on his knees, the elder brother’s hands hold the child with a firm and natural grip.

The little one, giggling, climbs down quickly and runs toward me. “Evander!”

I stroke his chestnut curls.

“Cecil, have you recovered?”

The child nods with shiny eyes and rosy cheeks.

I look up toward Nathaniel, his hands resting on his knees.

“Nathaniel, how was the journey?”

Richard, with a small wave of his hand, interrupts me.

“And what of me, then? Do I not exist?”

A brief smile crosses my face. I gesture for the servants to approach, and they present the basket I prepared.

Richard reaches for it, Cecil watches curiously, while Nathaniel tilts his head. Richard takes the bottle of Madeira from the basket, lifting it like a trophy.

“A most appreciated gift.”

I step closer and take it from his hands.

“This,” I say, “is not for you.”

I hand the bottle to Nathaniel. He grasps it, the slightly rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealing the veins in his arms.

“Thank you, Evander.”

His ash-green gaze meets mine, deep and uncertain like a lake where moss and sky mingle without finding peace. It is not the vivid green of his brothers, but a mixed tone, serene and austere, that penetrates without the need for words.

Richard observes the basket with eyes still a bit weary.

“Then the biscuits are for me?”

“No, they are for Cecil.”

The child grabs the biscuits with tiny hands and presses them to his chest.

“T-thank you.”

“It is absurd. For them, pleasant gifts, but for me, infusions.”

I sit beside him on the sofa, resting an arm on the backrest.

“You cannot drink it,” I say, pointing to the bottle, “you have had a fever.”

He makes a gesture of mock protest.

“I can eat the biscuits, though.”

“You are not a child.”