Amelia Harding adjusted her spectacles, her gaze sweeping across Mrs. Finch’s overflowing tea table. She was meant to be observing the social currents, the subtle ostracism that still clung to Eleanor Davies like a faint perfume. But her attention sharpened when she spotted Dr. Phineas Albright.
The good doctor, renowned for his discretion, was also known for his precise memory—and his love of gossip, carefully cloaked as social observation.
“Dr. Albright,” Amelia said, moving smoothly towards him. “A pleasure, as always.”
He gave a slight bow. “Miss Harding. Always a delight.”
She steered the conversation to the general decline of social graces, a safe topic. Dr. Albright, emboldened by the sympathetic ear, soon turned to the infamous Lockhart ball.
“Such a regrettable incident,” he sighed, dabbing at his brow. “Poor Arthur, of course. And Silas, so… forceful in his reaction.”
Amelia leaned in, her expression neutral.
“Forceful indeed,” she murmured. “One might have thought he’d been startled.”
Dr. Albright paused, a peculiar expression crossing his face.
“Startled, yes,” he conceded, then mused, almost to himself, “though I distinctly recall… a flicker. A sort of pre-emptive flinch, one might say, just a fraction of a second before the boy stumbled.”
He caught Amelia’s attentive gaze, his eyes widening slightly as he realized his slip.
He straightened his cravat, clearing his throat. “Merely an old doctor’s overly keen observation, of course. Nothing more.”
But Amelia had heard it. A pre-emptive flinch. It wasn’t a clumsy accident, or even a startled lashing out. Silas had anticipated Arthur’s fall. He had *known* it was coming.
His kick had been deliberate.
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