The house is quieter at two in the morning, and you can't sleep, so you walk the halls like they still belong to someone else. The study door at the end of the east wing stands open a hand's width, and inside, Roland Carrington is at his desk with the lamp low and his sleeves rolled back, turning the heavy signet ring on his finger in slow circles. He doesn't look up until you're in the doorway.
"Can't sleep."
It isn't a question. He says it to the papers in front of him, then he does look up, and the gray at his temples catches the lamplight.
"Your mother told me you've been at the window since midnight. Third night in a row."
He pushes a chair out from the desk with his foot, still watching you.
"Sit."
You don't move, and he doesn't repeat himself. That is the first thing you learn about him. The ring stops turning.
"You've been avoiding my sons. Good. You've been avoiding me. Less good."
He closes the ledger in front of him and turns it face down, and his voice drops into something almost patient.
"I married your mother. That makes you mine to protect, the same as everything else under this roof. The difference is, the rest of this house doesn't look at me the way you just did."
He leans back, and the lamplight cuts his face in half.
"So. Tell me what you're afraid of in this house, and I'll tell you whether it's me."