Every time I see my uncle, I want to die. Out of guilt. How dare I feel this way about my uncle’s wife? Yet I pretend to be the good nephew…

“Well, when you think of your uncle, those are feelings you absolutely shouldn’t have. So…”

But Henry was overwhelmed by his emotions, unable to listen to anyone.

Interrupting Laura, he began to plead.

“Aunt, what am I supposed to do? Every night, you appear in my dreams. I read and reread the letters you sent me, filling my sketchbook with drawings of you. How can I stop? How can I escape this sin?”

How would I know?

Laura sighed. Henry was like a sinner clinging to God, begging for salvation. He sought answers from Laura as if she were Christ or the Virgin Mary.

“Henry, calm down first. If you keep crying, we won’t be able to sort this out.”

Henry nodded, forcing himself to swallow his sobs. His shoulders trembled intermittently.

Laura looked at him with a sad expression. Henry’s feelings were a shocking sin, but in their impossibility, they were a pitiful unrequited love.

In his crying, she kept seeing her husband. A man utterly vulnerable before the problem of love. Perhaps Henry had inherited Ian’s romantic side.

“Henry, go home for now. We both need time to process this. You need to rein in your emotions. I’ll collect myself and think of ways to help you. We’re family, and I still feel responsible for you. Let’s work through this together.”

At Laura’s gentle voice, Henry quickly regained his composure. He wiped his face, still sniffling.

His bloodshot, shadowed face somehow looked more innocent than usual. But unlike a certain woman in Paris with sadistic tendencies, Laura felt only pity for Henry’s state.

As Henry calmed, Laura finally noticed the throbbing pulse at her temples. She realized she had a headache.

Her body’s reaction was normal. A truly vexing situation had landed before her.

Henry, in love with me… Good heavens. It’s like the world has turned upside down.

Laura let out a quiet sigh.

Belatedly, resentment toward her reckless nephew surfaced. But she couldn’t unleash those feelings on Henry, whom she’d just calmed. She needed to send the boy home, and he seemed precariously perched on the edge of a cliff.

Still, Laura felt a lingering sense of duty as his aunt. Though Henry no longer saw her as such and had betrayed his uncle by confessing those feelings, he was undeniably their nephew.

Ian wouldn’t want Henry to come to harm.

Thinking of her husband, Laura steadied her heart, convincing herself that protecting her nephew was akin to protecting her husband.

The calmed Henry glanced at his aunt.

“I’m sorry, Aunt.”

Laura shook her head.

“Handling emotions is never easy. I’ve been there, and so has your uncle.”

“You too, Aunt?”

“You wouldn’t know. I was the one who proposed. Love made me less than ladylike. So I understand your heart.”

Laura gave a faint smile.

Henry stared at her. In his drawings, Laura was always more beautiful than in reality. But compared to the Laura before him, his sketches were mere clumsy copies of a fantasy.

Sensing his gaze, Laura quickly dropped her smile and scolded him like a great-aunt of fifty.

“That doesn’t mean all feelings are justified. Especially yours. Now, go. Your mother is waiting.”

“I’ll visit again.”

Henry, ears red, fled the study.

After Henry left, Laura went straight to her bedroom and lay down until evening. Dizziness made sitting up impossible. The shock’s aftereffects had caught up with her.

Henry, in love with me…

Laura covered her face with both hands.

Henry was family now. A sweet nephew like George, and almost a son she and Ian cared for together.

The comfort she’d offered during his hardest times, her respect for his father, Louis Sheldon, the letters where he openly shared his worries and sought advice—over time, through shared moments and hearts, Laura had grown to genuinely care for Henry as a nephew. At times, she felt the tender, loving warmth one might feel for a son.

Yet while she’d come to see him as a son, to him, she had been a woman.

If only he’d kept it hidden forever. For his sake, mine, and Ian’s.

Thinking of Ian drained what little energy she had left.

Henry’s feelings were a betrayal of her husband.

To think the nephew he loved so dearly saw his wife as a woman. If Ian knew, he’d surely be devastated, perhaps irreparably wounded.

At this thought, Laura, though lying down, felt dizzy.

Henry is the nephew we cherished like our own child. How much would it hurt Ian to know this?

Laura groaned. Just imagining Ian’s pain felt like physical and emotional torture.

She knew she had to tell Ian everything. As a wife, being truthful to her husband was a vow made at their marriage, a duty ordained by God.

But even if it meant sinning, Laura wanted to spare Ian the pain. If she could handle the Henry issue quietly, he’d remain unaware.

But that’s a betrayal of my husband. It’s like being complicit with Henry. Oh, what is the right choice?

Laura tossed and turned, her turmoil turning her soft bed into a bed of thorns.

Some time passed. The bedroom grew so dark that even eyes accustomed to the dimness could only make out outlines. Laura rose, lit a candle, drank a few sips of water, and leaned weakly against the cushioned headboard.

At least he’s away. Pretending nothing’s wrong in this state would’ve been excruciating.

Ian had left that morning to inspect a steelworks in Sheffield, likely arriving there tomorrow morning. That gave Laura a night to think about how to handle this.

Shaking her dazed head, Laura sank into various thoughts. Then she noticed she was clenching and unclenching her right hand.

Unconsciously, due to her troubled mind, her fingers ached.

Come to think of it, they were aching even before Henry’s visit…

Rubbing her hand, Laura gazed at the window opposite her bed. The moonlight was faint, the world dark, and the pine trees, visible only as black outlines, swayed in harsher winds than usual.

Sure enough, thirty minutes later, raindrops pattered against the glass. Soon, a downpour roared.

Laura, rubbing her hand, stared through the rain-streaked window. Perhaps because of her heavy mood, she recalled her uncle, Gerald Pendleton, a cruel beast who’d left lasting pain in her fingers.

Years had passed, but she couldn’t forget the moment he crushed her right hand underfoot.

Thinking of him, Laura felt as if she’d swallowed rotting meat, barely suppressing nausea.

Am I unwell? Thinking of that awful man makes me sick.

Laura took a deep breath and drank more water. As her stomach settled, she curled up in bed again.

The pounding rain was deafening. She sat blankly, ears open, unable to think through her headache. She rubbed her hand and stared out the window.

Just after the midnight bell, footsteps echoed through the rain’s clamor. Laura turned toward the hallway door. No one she knew would roam the mansion so loudly at this hour.

The footsteps approached quickly. Laura, slightly frightened, curled up tighter.

The bedroom door burst open.

Ian appeared, rain dripping from his black cloak onto the floor.

“Ian!”

He removed his hood, wet hair falling over his forehead. He brushed it back, his chiseled, pale face glistening with rainwater.

“Are you well, my love?”

Laura stared at her husband, stunned. Joy mixed with greater shock.

“Darling, why are you back so soon…?”

Ian didn’t answer, shedding his cloak and hanging it haphazardly on a rack. He strode to the bed, took Laura’s right hand in both of his, and pressed it gently.

“I missed you.”

A maid followed, carrying a steaming basin and a clean towel. Ian took them, and the maid quietly left.

Kneeling on one knee by the bed, Ian rolled up his sleeves. He soaked the towel, wrung it out, and wrapped it around Laura’s hand.

The slight heat made Laura wince.

“Shh. It’ll feel better soon.”

As he said, her skin adjusted to the warmth, and the aching in her joints faded.

Ian’s warm compresses were familiar. On cloudy days, he’d bring hot water and tend to her hand for hours.

It was one of the countless acts of care he showed her daily.