CHAPTER 376: WE WON’T SAY THEIR NAMES

"Then we move sooner," Lilith said, her voice carrying that calm certainty that didn’t leave room for doubt.

"We will not sit still just because a calendar told us to." Her eyes sharpened slightly as she added, "But we won’t be baited either.

If something tries to make us run without giving us a reason stronger than fear, we stay where we are."

Liliana pushed herself upright, shifting from where she’d been sitting cross-legged to resting back on her heels.

She stretched her arms out slowly, her movements drawing out the lines of her body, revealing the curve of her hips and the shape of her waist.

"I hate that you’re right," she muttered, though the faint curve of her mouth made it clear she didn’t really hate it at all. "I hate that patience is part of courage."

"It’s most of it," Lilith replied without missing a beat.

They fell quiet after that, but this time the silence didn’t feel heavy. It was the comfortable kind, where no one felt the need to fill it.

The soft yellow lamp on the nightstand spread a pool of light across the bed, and beyond that pool, the rest of the room faded into shadow and blurred edges.

Liliana climbed up beside Lilith, tucking her bare feet under the quilt as if doing so could anchor her to the bed just a little tighter.

Isabella dragged the desk chair around so she could lean her arms and chest against its back, turning herself toward the others.

Seraphina shifted in closer until her shoulder pressed against Lilith’s, the contact steady and familiar, like she’d done it a hundred times before without thinking.

"You never answered him," Isabella said after a while, her voice breaking the lull. "What’s your worst fear?"

Lilith didn’t answer right away. She stayed still, long enough that the silence might have been her answer, but then she spoke.

"That I will teach him how to stand and forget to teach him how to rest."

Seraphina’s hand moved over the quilt until it found Lilith’s, and her fingers closed gently around it.

"We’ll teach both," she said, and her tone left no room for argument. "That’s why there are three of us sitting in this room and not just one."

Liliana’s voice came softer, but it still carried that stubborn edge she always had when something mattered to her. "Four," she said. "He sits here even when he’s not here."

Lilith’s lips curved faintly, just enough to show she agreed. "Four."

A hallway clock two floors down marked the hour with a muted chime. Here, inside the shielding, the sound was smaller than anywhere else in the house, as though the mansion itself was trying not to wake something that deserved its sleep.

The wards hummed their low, steady note. The wind outside brushed the curtains against the wall with a quiet swish. Nothing else moved.

Without meaning to, Lilith’s thoughts drifted to the dean. To the sealed plans they’d left in her keeping.

To the way a single line of text buried in the right system could act as a hidden doorway if the person behind it had a long enough reach.

Lilith didn’t like putting you-should n’t-know-this protections in anyone else’s hands, but she trusted the woman enough to share the blade.

Trust was a risk, love was a risk, and waiting was a risk. They were already living with all three, so one more wouldn’t break them.

"Tomorrow," Lilith said suddenly, and all three heads turned toward her as if she’d called their names. "We start sending—only small things.

We ask permission where we must, but we don’t ask where we don’t have to, and we don’t tell him why.

We don’t even tell ourselves we’re doing it to feel better. We do it because it will keep his edges from fraying."

Seraphina nodded once. "I’ll speak to the quartermaster about the wraps. No signatures. No note."

"I’ll find the telescope," Isabella added. "And the oil for the hinge. It won’t squeal when he moves it."

"I’ll sew the inside of the parcel with quiet thread," Liliana said. "The kind that makes someone breathe slower the moment they touch it."

Lilith let her shoulders relax just a fraction, the smallest sign of approval. "Good. That’s enough for tomorrow."

No one got up, reached for a list, or moved around the room.

They stayed exactly where they were, letting the plans sink in and settle the way silt settles in clear water—slowly, evenly—until the surface looked calm again.

"Tell me another small thing," Lilith said after a pause. "Not a plan. A truth."

Seraphina thought for a long while before she spoke. "He tries to hide when he’s proud," she said finally. "His eyes give him away first. They get lighter. It lasts three seconds. I counted."

Isabella’s lips curved into a faint smile that she aimed at the dark space beyond the lamp. "He talks to empty rooms like they can answer him. Not with words. With his hands. Little waves. A touch to the doorframe. The rooms like it."

Liliana shifted, pressing her cheek against the pillow Ethan had used, closing her eyes. "He sleeps on his side when he’s safe," she said. "On his back when he’s not. He doesn’t know that we know."

Lilith let the quiet hold for a moment, listening to the weight in each of their voices as they spoke. Then she added her own truth.

"When he thinks no one’s watching, he looks at the horizon like he’s waiting for it to call his name."

She let that sit for a beat before softening it with a small smile. "And he never wins against the kettle."

Isabella let out a quick laugh, the sound breaking some of the heaviness in the room. "No one does."

They stayed like that until the lamp began to burn lower, the light shifting from a clear glow to something softer and more golden.

The shadows in the corners stretched longer, and the house itself seemed to settle deeper into its night rhythm.

The wards gave that deep, almost-felt note that meant everything inside was intact and protected.

When they finally moved, it was without hurry. Liliana slid off the bed, pressing a kiss to her fingertips before laying them on the pillow—her own quiet promise.

Isabella turned the chair back to face the desk again and straightened the books without thinking about it.

Seraphina rose and smoothed the quilt with both hands, as if ironing the creases out of the blanket could smooth the worries out of her thoughts.

Lilith leaned forward once more, taking in the pillow’s scent. It still smelled like him, and she knew it would for a long while.

She let herself take that comfort in, then let it go without trying to hold it. Standing, her hair fell loose down her back as she looked at each of them in turn.

"We won’t say their names," she said quietly. "We won’t invite their ears. We won’t give them a stage in this house.

We’ll be careful with our words, careful with our waiting, and careful with keeping this room ready."

Three quiet nods answered her, each with its own shade of agreement with each of them having their own thoughts.

They left the room without switching off the lamp. The house had a light left burning for someone who might come home late.

The wards pulsed once like a heartbeat, answering a silent question with yes. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing in the thin, steady glow, the shape of the bed, the pillow, and the faint scent that made absence just a little easier to bear.

Their footsteps down the hallway fell into the same slow rhythm, each lost in her own slice of thought, though they were all thinking of the same person.

In the quiet space they left behind, the room seemed to hold its breath and keep its promise.

The kettle in the kitchen rested like a guard dog with one eye open. The telescope waited to be found.

The wraps in the upstairs hall remembered the last week and quietly prepared to forget it when they had to.

Outside, the wind moved through the trees, setting the branches to a low whisper that sounded almost like applause.

Patience would be the hardest part. It always was when love had sharpened itself into something both fierce and tender.

But they had carried heavier burdens across rougher ground before. They would carry this one, too.

They would not break, call the wrong names, or step onto a stage that wasn’t theirs. They would send their small kindness forward, and they would keep the door as they had always kept it.

And when he came back—because he would—they would have the room just as it was now: carrying his scent in the air, the lamp casting its warm glow, and the wards humming that low, steady note that meant home.