Chapter 153: his own proposal

Chapter 153 — His Own Proposal

Liam was unusually quiet at breakfast. He ate his toast in small, absent bites, and between each one he glanced at his phone, which lay beside his plate like an unexploded shell. Roxanne sat down opposite him with her porridge and watched him do it four times before she said anything.

"Are you nervous?"

"Certainly not."

"You’ve been looking at the same message for five minutes."

"It’s a very interesting message."

"What does it say?"

He sighed and turned the screen toward her. It was a short note from his mother’s secretary. The family would like to discuss his proposal that evening, after dinner, in the small drawing room. Please be punctual.

"They’ve scheduled it," Liam said. "Like a treaty."

"Are you worried they’ll disagree?"

"I’m worried they’ll agree and give me twice as much work."

"That’s a very royal problem."

"Thank you. I’ve worked hard to develop it."

She laughed, and he almost did. But he picked up the phone again before she could finish her porridge, and she let him, because there was nothing sensible to say to a person who had to wait for an evening.

The workshop met that afternoon in the sunny room above the library. Mr. Ellery was already there, tapping his pencil against his knee with the air of a man holding good news in his pocket. Nora sat very straight beside the window with a freshly printed copy of her story, the corners squared with great care.

"I have an announcement," Mr. Ellery said, once everyone had settled. "The literary magazine has shortlisted several pieces from this workshop. I won’t make you wait."

He read the names. Pippa’s haunted laundry room, to a shriek of delight. Corin’s quiet train story, to a murmur of approval. Then he paused, and read, "The Space I Left Empty. Nora Ellis."

Nora did not move. Her face went through several expressions in rapid succession and settled, with visible effort, on indifference. She smoothed her paper. "Oh. That’s nice."

Roxanne leaned toward her. "You’re gripping that page so hard it’s going to tear."

Nora looked down. Her knuckles were white. She let go all at once and laughed, high and astonished. "I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously."

"Somebody did."

"Somebody did," Nora repeated, as if testing the words, and a flush spread across her cheeks.

At the end of the session, Mr. Ellery caught Roxanne by the door, pencil tapping. "Your teaspoon story has promise for the Winter Arts Evening, if you can develop the ending. Don’t rush it."

"I’ll think about it."

"That is all anyone asks." He beamed. "Though I would like it noted that I think it is rather good."

She was pleased, more than she let on, but she did not say yes. She had learned that saying yes quickly was often a way of avoiding the question.

She found Liam later in one of the small study rooms off the main corridor, sprawled across a chair with a sheaf of papers fanned across the table and a pencil behind his ear. He looked up as she came in and straightened with great ceremony.

"Ah. My consultant."

"I’m not your consultant."

"My unpaid consultant. Sit. Read."

He had written a proposal, and it was better than she had expected. It was neatly laid out in three sections. The youth sports initiative would give younger wolves from smaller packs access to training, mentorship, and organised games that most of them never had a chance to try. It would fit inside the leadership programme as a practical component, with visits to partner academies. He had even included a short paragraph about the value of play, which she suspected had cost him a lot of effort to keep serious.

She read it through twice. "This is good."

"I know."

"But you’ve written a great deal about what the initiative will offer, and nothing about how you’ll manage it. Who runs it when you’re away at appearances? Who handles the schedule? Who pays for the equipment?"

Liam put a hand over his heart. "I am wounded."

"You’re annoyed because I’m right."

"I’m both. It’s a talent." He pulled the pages back, frowned at them, and crossed out half a paragraph. "Fine. I need a plan for responsibilities. Staff coordinators, a rota, a small budget request."

"That would help."

"You’re relentless."

"I’m reading carefully."

He bent over the table and began to write, and she left him to it. She had no wish to rewrite his proposal, or to stand behind him while he presented it. It was his to carry. She had only pointed at the gap, and he had picked up the pencil himself.

At six o’clock he straightened his jacket in the corridor, took a long breath, and went off toward the east wing with his papers held against his chest. He did not ask her to come, and she did not offer.

The evening passed slowly. She ate dinner with Tessa, who was busy complaining about the otter’s stuffing, and then went back to her room and opened her laptop. At half past eight, a message arrived.

Taking longer than expected. Mother has questions. So does Father. So does the dog.

She typed: Good luck. I’m not going to ask for updates.

Thank you. That’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.

She smiled and turned back to her story. She wrote the girl opening the box, and the teaspoon, and the afternoon that came flooding back. She did not check her phone more than twice, and she counted that as growth.

It was nearly ten the next morning when she found him in the courtyard, sitting on the rim of the fountain with his chin in his hands. He looked tired, and a little dazed, but not unhappy.

"Well?" she said.

"They approved it. In principle."

"In principle?"

"With conditions." He ticked them off on his fingers. "A detailed schedule. Coordination with academy staff. A written plan showing the initiative can run without interfering with my other duties. Monthly reports." He let his hand fall. "They have turned my simple idea into an administrative nightmare."

"You wanted them to take it seriously."

"Yes. I did." He considered it with deep reluctance. "Annoyingly, they have."

"So you’re pleased?"

"I’m cautiously pleased."

"That’s a very boring emotion."

"I’m growing as a person. Try to keep up."

She sat down beside him on the cold stone. The water behind them splashed quietly. He seemed to relax by degrees, and eventually he said, with real warmth, "I’m glad they didn’t dismiss it. The work will be considerable. But it’s mine."

"It is."

He turned his head. "How’s the writing?"

"Mr. Ellery thinks my teaspoon story could go to the Winter Arts Evening, if I develop the ending."

"Will you perform it?"

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "I haven’t decided. I like writing it. But sharing something personal is different from playing a fictional princess."

"It is."

"You’re not going to tell me what to do?"

"You’ll figure it out." He shrugged. "You usually do. Eventually. After a great deal of fuss."

They sat there until the bell, talking about nothing in particular. The otter’s stuffing. Tessa’s grudge against the ring toss. Whether the pigeons behind the library had a hierarchy. It was an easy hour, and neither of them tried to turn it into anything more serious.

That evening, an email arrived from the Winter Arts Evening coordinator.

Roxanne read it standing at her desk. Her story had been selected for a short reading session. A small, bright jolt of pride went through her. Then she read the next line.

Students whose work is selected will read their pieces themselves.

She stared at the screen.

She had imagined submitting her writing and letting it be read quietly on a page. She had never imagined standing in front of an audience and speaking it aloud, in her own voice, with nothing between her and the room.

And this time there would be no Liam beside her, no shared stage, no one to catch a dropped crown.