Chapter 14 Names and Siblings

  The next morning unfolded gently, washed in the hush of spring rain and the warmth of routine. The household had unknowingly formed a ritual that they would keep for weeks: each family member, one by one, would visit the boy’s room before beginning their day.

  Lady Seraphine came with a soft voice and the same book as yesterday, brushing her fingers through his hair and reading beside his bed. When she left, she paused by the door, always hopeful, never showing worry.

  Aldric followed, a shadow and a sentinel. He spoke plainly—about the weather, the stables, the swords he’d sharpened—details the boy likely didn’t grasp. Still, Aldric addressed him as if he could respond, as if the silence between them was only temporary. There was a rhythm to it, a habit from long ago—echoes of hushed conversations once shared beneath dark nights and behind doors. When he turned to leave, he paused at the threshold and glanced back, quietly, like he was waiting for a sign that those old talks might begin again.

  Lord Eldric entered later, a stillness in his stride. He didn’t speak, but he adjusted the boy’s blankets, checked his pulse with the care of a soldier, and ensured the water was fresh. Then, with a solemn nod, he left.

  Lisette burst in soon after, her steps light, her presence full of color and chatter. The door hadn’t even closed before she spoke.

  “Well, it’s just you and me now, Brother.”

  She emphasized the word “Brother” with her usual flourish—half affection, half royal decree as always, she was bundled up in thick socks and a shawl draped over her shoulders like a cloak. No matter how warm the house or the season, the cold clung to her.

  “You don’t seem to remember,” she said, a bit softer now. “But you’re my older brother. Your Fourteen. The second child of this perfectly strange family. And I’ve decided you need me more than ever.”

  She paused, tilting her head.

  “Also, I’m reminding you that I’m your favorite, but we can confirm that later.”

  He didn’t react—couldn’t, really—but his gaze followed her every word, as if memorizing her movements, her expressions, her voice.

  For the next five minutes, she kept him thoroughly entertained with stories—some wildly heroic, others completely absurd. She added ridiculous voices, exaggerated gestures, and even tried to balance a spoon on her nose.

  “And then the goose said, ‘This is my bakery, sir!’” she declared, crossing her arms like an indignant waterfowl. The boy’s lips twitched—nearly a smile, reacting to the gestures.

  “Alright, alright, enough theatrics,” Lisette said, flopping into the nearby chair with a sigh and a dramatic wave. “Time for something important.”

  She let herself settle for a moment, tugging her shawl tighter and curling her socked feet beneath her. “Whew,” she muttered. “Storytelling is thirsty work.”

  She stood again, crossed to the table, and poured herself a small glass of water from the pitcher. She took a long drink, then glanced back at the boy.

  “Are you?” she asked, tilting the pitcher slightly toward him. “Thirsty, I mean.”

  His gaze flicked to the sick cup, then back to her.

  She stepped toward the table and filled the sick cup from the water pitcher.

  “Mother usually gives you this,” Lisette continued, switching to her best imitation of their mother’s calm, steady tone. “But I’ve been observing carefully, and I know I’m ready for the role of official assistant nurse.”

  She helped him sit up with gentle determination, sliding a pillow behind his shoulders to support him. She brought the cup to his lips, holding it steady.

  “There we go. Sip-sip.”

  He drank slowly. Not a drop spilled.

  Lisette grinned. “Yes! You did it! Patient’s doing great, and obviously, I’m the best nurse ever.”

  She returned the cup to the table, then turned to him with a sparkle in her eyes.

  “You know what?” she said, suddenly inspired. “I think it’s time you learned something important. To talk words and maybe even speak names.”

  She picked up the cup again and held it in front of him.

  “This,” she said clearly, “is a cup. Say it with me. Cuh. Uh. Puh.”

  The boy blinked. She waited. Encouraged.

  “...Cup,” he whispered.

  Lisette froze mid-movement. “Did you—did you just—say that?”

  His gaze didn’t waver.

  “Cup,” he said again. A little clearer.

  “Oh my stars,” she whispered, hand over her mouth. “You can talk!”

  Her face split into a radiant grin. “Oh, this is it! You’ve just made the mistake of proving I’m a genius, Brother. You are now my new language student.”

  She pointed to the table. “Table.”

  “...Tay...ble.”

  “Excellent! Next!”

  She whirled about the room like a small storm, pointing at everything. “Chair!” “Window!” “Curtain!” “Tassel!”

  He repeated each one, slowly but surely. Sometimes slurred, sometimes perfect. Every time, she praised him like a hero.

  “Brilliant! Amazing! You’re going to be smarter than Aldric by next week. Not that the bar is high.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed now, breathless with excitement. His eyes—still a little dull from illness—held something now. Focus. Spark. Connection.

  She paused, then leaned in with a new idea. One she’d been saving.

  “Alright,” she said with mock seriousness, “time for something special.”

  She pointed to herself and struck a pose. “Lisette.”

  “...Lisette,” he repeated, carefully.

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  “That’s me,” she said, with a proud nod. Then she tapped her chest and added, “Your sister. Younger, yes, but clearly superior in charm and intelligence.”

  She tapped her chest again. “Big. Sister.”

  He hesitated. Then, voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Big... sister.”

  Lisette froze. Her smile curled slowly, devilishly.

  “Oh-ho-ho,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You’ve just said it. Out loud. It’s real. It’s binding. I’m officially your Big Sister now.”

  He blinked at her, unsure if he had just been tricked into something or celebrated for it.

  “I’ll take care of you,” she said softly, suddenly more sincere. “Even if you don’t remember. Even if everything is confusing, I’m not going anywhere. And now that you can talk… you’re stuck with me even more.”

  He gave the faintest of nods—his first.

  She stared at him, stunned for a moment, then leaned in and hugged him—lightly, mindful of his frailty, but full of feeling.

  She dropped to her knees beside him, practically bouncing.

  “Oh, you’re in so much trouble now. You’ve gone and given me hope—and that means we’re doing a show.”

  The boy blinked at her, still pale and weak but undeniably watching her with something new in his eyes—amusement? Curiosity? Affection? Maybe all three.

  “Yes, a show! Just imagine it.” She stood again, pacing now, talking fast as her hands painted the air. “We’ll wait until everyone’s here—Mother with her tea, Aldric pretending he’s too cool to be impressed, Father acting like he’s just here to check your pulse—then boom! You say a word. Maybe two! And everyone will just—collapse. I mean, not literally, because that would be dramatic and worrying, but emotionally.”

  She turned to him with a grin so wide it nearly split her face.

  “We’ll keep it secret until then, okay? Just us. Our plan. Our moment.”

  He gave the faintest nod, his second, and Lisette beamed like a sunrise.

  …

  By midday, an odd hush had settled over the estate. The kind of quiet that made even the crows seem polite.

  It began subtly. No one noticed at first—just a sense that something was missing. The halls weren’t quite as loud. The kitchen wasn’t quite as busy. The rooms seemed wider, like sound had slipped out through the windows and forgotten to come back in.

  The cook, Marla, was the first to feel it truly. She stirred her broth with a slow ladle, staring at the kitchen doorway.

  “Has the girl been in?” she finally asked.

  The scullery maid blinked. “Lisette?”

  “Aye. She always bursts in by now, begging for lemon biscuits or thieving berries off the tray.”

  The maid frowned. “Now that you mention it… no. Not since breakfast. I didn’t even hear her singing down the stairs.”

  Marla leaned back on her heels. “That’s not right.”

  In the east wing, Linney—one of the older chambermaids—paused as she adjusted the fresh linens in the study. Something itched at her attention. Then it hit her: no humming. No skipping footsteps. No, Lisette popping into rooms she wasn’t supposed to be in, pretending to inspect for “royal comfort standards.”

  She set her folded sheets down. “Have you seen the girl today?” she asked her fellow maid.

  “Lisette?” The other girl shook her head. “No, actually… it’s been quiet all morning.”

  The news spread slowly, like a whisper passed from room to room. By early afternoon, at least six servants had said the same thing in different parts of the house: “No one’s seen Lisette.”

  It felt strange. Lisette was part of the manor’s daily rhythm—like sunlight through the windows, always there, always noticed.

  She flitted from room to room like a windblown spark—talking, laughing, asking impossible questions, leaving scraps of ribbon in odd places, demanding to know the names of every plant in the garden (even if she’d named them herself the day before).

  But today? Nothing.

  No stories shouted from the stairwells. No muffled singing from behind doors. No half-eaten toast left on the windowsill for the birds. Not even a single complaint about how cold her toes were.

  By midafternoon, Marla stood in the hallway outside the reading room, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed at the ceiling.

  “This is unnatural,” she muttered. “Like the house has been… muffled.”

  Downstairs, the steward was already taking quiet roll: Lady Seraphine was in the west garden. Lord Eldric and Aldric had not returned from the Hollow. The boy—still resting. But Lisette…

  Nowhere.

  Linney checked the garden. Nothing.

  Stablehands checked the hayloft. Empty.

  No one had seen her leave.

  No one had seen her at all.

  And the strange silence thickened, becoming not just an absence—but a presence in itself.

  A quiet that made everyone pause. That made even the staff, hardened by years of routine, speak softer and listen harder.

  A quiet that could only mean Lisette—bright, reckless, uncontainable Lisette—was up to something.

  Or worse... something was wrong.

  Lady Seraphine had just stepped in from the west garden when Linney found her, breathless and flushed with concern.

  “My lady,” the maid began, dipping into a rushed curtsy. “Forgive me, but… It’s Lisette. No one’s seen her all day.”

  Seraphine stilled, the clipping shears in her hand falling silent.

  “No one?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  Linney shook her head. “Not in the kitchens, not the stables, not even the south hall. It’s been… quiet.”

  Seraphine nodded once, a tight motion. That word again. Quiet. She had felt it too, humming faintly in the background of her thoughts all day, like an off-key note in an otherwise beautiful tune.

  She handed the shears to Linney and turned toward the east wing, her stride swift and purposeful. “I’ll find her.”

  The house was warm with afternoon sun, but that strange quiet made it feel colder somehow—as if even the walls were holding their breath.

  The family had agreed yesterday to visit the boy each morning, one after another, creating a quiet rhythm of support and presence. Seraphine had already visited him earlier—tea, a few pages of poetry, her usual gentle reassurances—but perhaps… perhaps Lisette had returned.

  She reached the boy’s door and paused. It was closed, but not latched. From inside came no singing, no chattering, no thump of tumbling objects or shout of triumph—just silence.

  Seraphine pushed the door open gently.

  The sight stopped her completely.

  The room was in complete disarray. Not a chaotic mess, but an intentional sort of whirlwind—an orchestra of strange objects dragged from all over the manor and carefully placed like pieces of some grand performance.

  There was a chair draped in velvet from the sitting room. Three candlesticks balanced on the windowsill—unlit, thankfully. A pillow from the parlor sofa rested on the floor beside a garden basket full of lemons. Sheets had been twisted into what might have once been a curtain. And near the foot of the bed, glittering absurdly among it all, was the silver gravy boat from the dining hall.

  Seraphine blinked, then stepped softly into the room.

  And there, at the center of it all—curled up like a cat beside the boy, limbs folded tight and her shawl tucked under her cheek—was Lisette.

  Fast asleep.

  Her brother lay beside her, still and watching. He didn’t move, but his eyes found Seraphine immediately. Calm. Present.

  There was no alarm in his gaze—just quiet awareness, as if he had expected her.

  Lisette’s fingers rested lightly on the boy’s arm, their hands nearly touching. Around them, the chaos felt… soft—a child’s stage. A world built of imagination and hope.

  Seraphine’s heart ached and bloomed at once.

  She moved closer, careful not to wake the girl. She knelt at the bedside, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lisette’s brow.

  She remembered all the mornings Lisette had filled with laughter, mischief, and stubborn warmth. And now—here she was, worn out from the weight of joy and triumph she hadn’t yet shared.

  Seraphine leaned close to her son and whispered, “Was this her idea?”

  The boy blinked once, then slowly—ever so faintly—smiled.

  Seraphine covered her mouth with one hand, the breath catching in her throat. It was the first time she’d seen it: a genuine smile, no matter how small—a spark.

  She didn’t speak again. She only stayed for a long while, sitting in the stillness her daughter had left behind. Her hand rested gently on Lisette’s back, rising and falling with each soft breath.

  And in that messy room, with its silver gravy boat, paper flowers, and dreams too big to clean up, Seraphine let the silence settle.

  Not heavy now.

  Not wrong.

  Just full of love, of light, of what was finally, quietly, returning.