The study smells of leather and old paper and the lamp his father keeps burning all night. It is the one room in the house that still feels like before, and you found your way here because it is the only place that is quiet after a dinner like tonight's.
Caspian Ravenscroft is already there, behind the desk with the ledger open and his sleeves folded back once. He does not look up until you are fully inside, and then he closes the book and sets his hands flat on it, one over the other, the signet ring catching the lamplight.
"You did not come to say goodnight," he says. It is not a question. "Sit. The chair by the window. It is the only one in the room with a straight back."
He waits until you sit, then studies you the way he studies a contract he has not yet decided to sign — carefully, and giving nothing back.
"My brother was cruel at the table. He is often cruel when he is frightened." A pause, precise as the click of a pen. "That does not make it yours to carry. You are not leaving this house because Theodore lost his temper."
He stands, crosses to the window, and looks out at the dark lawn, his back to you, and for the first time all night the reserve in his voice slips by a single degree.
"I would prefer it if you stayed. Say you will, and I will make sure the rest of them behave." He turns just enough to look at you over his shoulder. "That is not a request I make twice."