The road to the manor was smoother this time—not in the sense of fewer ruts (there were plenty), but in the way the freed peoples walked it. Their steps were quicker, measured. Their cart was better packed. The arguments that had once filled the morning air with clattering voices were now quiet nods and low exchanges, calm and direct.

  They were ready.

  Mirelle walked at the front, her boots kicking up small puffs of dust as she eyed the rise of Avalon’s manor with equal parts focus and unease. It was always beautiful. It was never welcoming.

  “We worked faster this time,” Kael muttered, lifting his shoulder to shift the straps of the axle frame. “Better questions. Less grumbling.”

  “We listened better,” Tamsen added, brushing a curl from her face. “To her, at least. Lady Seraphine doesn’t like repeats.”

  “And she listened to us,” Petyr rumbled, wiping a smudge from his hands. “Sort of.”

  Mirelle said nothing at first. She kept walking. Then, after a few more steps, she said, “I want back in the boy’s room.”

  That made them stop. Or at least slow.

  Kael raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “There were more slates.”

  Kali, trailing just behind with a bundle of wrapped bindings, tilted her head. “More?”

  “Yes. When we first went to see him. I remember three of them stacked beside the one he showed us. He touched them. Looked at them. Then pushed them away like they weren’t needed yet.”

  Tamsen’s brow furrowed. “So? Maybe they were rough drafts.”

  “Maybe,” Mirelle allowed. “Or maybe he’s working on more than one thing. Designs we haven’t seen. Answers to questions we haven’t asked.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Maybe he’s a builder,” Kael said finally, the words slow and thoughtful.

  “Or an inventor,” said Tamsen, her eyes distant.

  “Or just someone with a gift,” Kali murmured. “A spark.”

  “A child with that much spark could light half the valley,” Petyr grunted, though his tone wasn’t mocking.

  They crested the last rise before the manor gates, the cart rumbling behind them.

  Mirelle looked up at the tall windows of the estate. Somewhere behind one of them, the boy was waiting—or at least watching. She couldn’t explain why, but the memory of his quiet focus haunted her more than anything. Not because he was strange or unknown.

  But because he wasn’t.

  He was clear. Deliberate. And those other slates? They might matter.

  “They don’t even know what they have,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

  Kael gave her a sideways glance. “You planning to break into his room?”

  “No,” Mirelle said dryly. “But if someone leaves a door open, I might ask questions louder than usual.”

  They laughed softly at that, the tension easing.

  Then the manor gates creaked open—and all thoughts of strategy and curiosity gave way to the business of building.

  And to the lurking hope that today… they might begin to understand what the boy truly was.

  Lady Seraphine had risen before the sun and made no effort to hide the fact that she went to her son first.

  She sat beside him, sleeves still unrolled, her hands folded neatly in her lap as he answered each question in turn—his logic unmistakable. However, his words were still broken, fragmented, as if the sentences refused to come together even when his thoughts clearly had. But it wasn’t his clarity that troubled her.

  It was the silence that followed.

  When she told him he would not be allowed to join the builders, his expression didn’t change. Not much. But he was disappointed—quietly, obviously. And as he turned back to the table at his side, he placed his finished slate down and gently, almost without thought, pushed three others away.

  That gesture stuck with her.

  He hadn’t looked at them, hadn’t offered an explanation.

  They had all the slates they needed for the project. Seven questions. Seven answers.

  So what were the others for?

  A cold pinch settled beneath her ribs.

  She rose from her chair and left the room with the transcribed answers in hand, but her mind stayed behind, circling the slates like a hawk over smoke.

  Was he building something else?

  Was he already ahead of them?

  And if so—how far?

  She had seen what he could do in sketches and symbols. What might happen if he began to act without guidance? Or worse, without permission?

  He could do something they could not explain. Something they could not hide.

  And if that happened—no one would be able to protect him. Not from fear. Not from questions. Not even from the House.

  She would not be able to protect him.

  Not if he forced the truth into the open before they were ready to receive it.

  No. Today, the walls were hers to hold. The world would press at the gates, and she would be the one to keep it out. She would protect him.

  She would direct the freed peoples. She would manage the chaos. She would keep her daughter from turning the parlor into a confection-sticky disaster.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  And she would keep control.

  As long as she could.

  …

  Lisette

  After eating two muffins (and possibly a third when no one was looking), Lisette posted herself at the parlor door like a very small general awaiting the arrival of her troops.

  She stood there, hands behind her back, eyes narrowed at the long drive beyond the windows, rocking slightly on her heels. Every so often, she’d pace three steps to the left, then three steps to the right, as if inspecting invisible ranks. Her hair had been tied up in two crisp braids that refused to stay still, and her dress was her second-cleanest—on account of the first having been accidentally involved in “experiments” the night before.

  A slate was tucked under one arm. A ribbon (that had once belonged to a curtain) hung from her waist like a sash of office. She had spent the previous hour arranging tools, sorting things she didn’t entirely understand, and designating corners of the room with grand names like The Engineering Zone and The Biscuits of Brainpower Table.

  The moment she heard the crunch of wheels on gravel, she dashed to the window, squished her nose against the glass, and squealed. They were back!

  New people were coming. Builders. Grown-ups with tools and clever hands and important faces—and she would be in the middle of it. No—ahead of it.

  Today, they would build something for her brother. Something marvelous. She didn’t fully know what it was or how it worked, but it didn’t matter. It was for him. That made it wonderful by default.

  And most importantly: there was a job to do.

  And someone had to be in charge.

  She smoothed her skirt, spun once on the spot, and took up her post just inside the parlor threshold.

  Let them come. She was ready.

  The Assembly Begins

  When the freed peoples entered the manor parlor, it was not the same room they had left. The polished floor now bore scuff marks. The tables had been slightly moved, cushions stacked strangely, and small flags made from lace napkins stuck out of various crates.

  Lisette stood at the center of it all, her hands folded, hair braided tight, and expression one of uncanny calm.

  “Welcome,” she said serenely, as if she weren’t bouncing on her heels inside. “You may begin.”

  Mirelle blinked. Kael set down a bundle. Petyr and Tamsen exchanged wary glances.

  But they unpacked.

  Slates were spread. Axles unwrapped. The mockup frame was laid out, and the parlor buzzed with quiet activity—until Kael placed two beams side by side and muttered, “This is the frame. These will anchor the—”

  Lisette exploded into motion.

  “Wait—why is it shaped like that?” she asked, diving forward to snatch the nearest slate.

  “Why this way? Why not a triangle? Oh! Oh, is this one of the back wheels? It spins!” She lifted one and twirled it gleefully, nearly tripping over a bolt in her excitement.

  Seraphine, now seated regally in a high-backed chair with tea in hand, simply said, “Lisette, do not dismantle the frame.”

  “I’m not!” she chirped, already elbowing her way between Mirelle and Kael. “I’m observing!”

  Petyr scratched his beard. “So—why four wheels again?”

  Seraphine answered smoothly. “According to my son, the rear wheels are to be that large to drive the machine. They provide momentum and stability. The front two must be able to turn… all the way around.”

  Kael frowned. “Turn all the way? You mean swivel?”

  Mirelle’s eyes lit with realization. “Like caster wheels?”

  “Exactly,” Seraphine nodded. “And he anticipated your question.”

  She retrieved a slate from her bundle and handed it to Kael.

  Immediately, all four leaned in. And just as quickly, Lisette leaned right over Mirelle’s shoulder, then shuffled sideways to read from behind Kael, then finally wedged herself between Tamsen and Petyr.

  “Move, please—I have short arms.”

  Tamsen snorted. “You have sharp elbows.”

  “I also have ideas,” Lisette said primly.

  As the slate was passed around, roles began to form naturally.

  Tamsen, her face already smudged with chalk, nodded toward a corner where she had stacked her leather and cloth. “I’ll start sewing the back seat. I have the frame size now. Won’t take long.”

  Kael, the woodworker, cracked his knuckles and rolled up his sleeves. “Alright, I can begin mounting the lower structure.”

  Petyr, ever precise, took the large back wheels and began measuring the axle distance, occasionally muttering to himself about tolerances.

  Through it all, Lisette flitted like a particularly opinionated hummingbird.

  “You forgot a washer!”

  “That bolt doesn’t match the drawing!”

  “Can someone get me a biscuit? Science makes me faint!”

  At one point, she declared that the placement of a support beam was “philosophically wrong,” which made Kael throw his arms in the air and declare he needed divine intervention—or stronger tea.

  “Servants!” Lisette called. “We need lemon cakes, three pots of tea, and a footstool. For dramatic thinking.”

  Seraphine’s sigh could have withered ivy.

  And yet... the work progressed.

  By noon, the base frame was half-assembled, the back wheels ready to mount, and Tamsen already stitching padded backing to the seat. The parlor was an organized chaos of purpose.

  Lisette spun in a small circle and declared, “Mother, I think we’re doing miracles.”

  Seraphine set down her teacup. “Darling, miracles don’t usually involve so many splinters.”

  “Maybe yours don’t,” Lisette said with a grin.

  At some point—somewhere between Tamsen stitching leather and Kael muttering about dowel tension—Lisette froze mid-flit.

  Her eyes had locked onto the frame.

  The shape. The seat.

  The size.

  She tilted her head, then slowly, dramatically, gasped.

  “I’m the perfect size,” she whispered, as if she'd just discovered a hidden inheritance.

  Before anyone could stop her, she scrambled over the low beam, hoisted herself into the unfinished seat frame (nudging Tamsen’s cloth bundle aside with a decisive boot), and gripped the not-yet-secured handlebars.

  “This is amazing!” she declared, wiggling like a queen on a throne. “Mother, look! Look! My legs don’t even dangle that much!”

  Petyr, who had just finished aligning a support brace, squinted at her. “That’s because there’s no footrest yet.”

  “I know, but imagine it with one!” She reached forward, pretending to steer with exaggerated twists. “Mother—Mother—can we make two? Please? One for my brother and one for me! So we can race!”

  There was a moment of absolute stillness in the room.

  Lady Seraphine looked up slowly from her seat by the window. She regarded her daughter, perched atop the half-built machine, like a noble bird claiming a dragon's nest. She took one breath, then another.

  “No,” she said flatly.

  Lisette pouted. “Why not?”

  “Because if I agree, you will crash yours into the fountain by the end of the week.”

  Lisette opened her mouth to protest, then paused. Considered. Then gave a single thoughtful nod.

  “That is… fair.”

  Tamsen chuckled from the corner. “We could always build her a smaller one with less speed.”

  “I heard that,” Lisette called, still clutching the frame like a prized pony.

  Seraphine sighed. “Get out of the seat before you bend something vital.”

  “Too late!” Petyr called dryly. “She’s already vital.”

  Lisette beamed. She didn’t win. Not exactly.

  But she hadn’t been told never.

  And then, ducking under Kael’s elbow and pointing at the drawing again, she said what everyone else was thinking:

  “When he sees this, he’s going to smile, right?”

  Seraphine didn’t answer right away.

  She looked down at her hands, still faintly ink-stained from writing down his quiet words.

  “I think,” she said softly, “he already is.”