For a sparse moment, nothing existed between them except the stillness and the soft rush of wind threading through the gazebo.
Then Madam Beckett rose—slowly, deliberately—and stepped toward him.
Mervyn stiffened. His entire body trembled, but he forced his spine straight, bracing himself for the strike he knew so well.
He expected her to lash out, to slap him the way Madam Clark used to whenever he spoke out of turn.
But it didn't come.
"Mervyn…" she whispered as her hand rose, fingers cool and steady as they cupped his cheek.
The gesture was so gentle, so unexpected, that it rooted him in place.
"Looking at you now…" Her voice quivered, the edges softening in a way he had never heard from her. "…I can't help but think of Clyde's birth mother."
Her eyes shimmered with a grief Mervyn could not decipher. It was pity, yes, but also a sorrow that seemed to reach far beyond him.
