Moonlight and Missteps

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From the Desk of Lord Northwood

July 18th, The night the music tried to save us

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The journey to the venue was a quiet one, the rhythmic clip-clop of the carriage wheels providing a soothing counterpoint to the tangle of thoughts in my head. I rode in the company of Lady Allison Thatcher and her devoted partner, Mr. William Winslow—two dear friends whose arrival each summer feels as inevitable and welcome as the first warm wind off the coast.

Lady Thatcher, descended from a long and storied line of financiers, has spent the better part of her adulthood ensuring her name is known not for legacy, but for will. She hosts with effortless elegance and writes with the sharpness of a sabre. Though our paths rarely cross outside these golden months, she and I exchange letters throughout the year—notes of honesty, warmth, and just enough scandal to keep things interesting.

It was through Mr. Jonah Callahan that I came to know her, and through her that I began to understand the constellations of his world.

Jonah himself was the reason for the evening’s gathering—a farewell of sorts, for he was soon to depart on yet another transatlantic venture, the kind that involved weatherworn notebooks, secondhand novels annotated in the margins, and a single leather trunk that held more stories than clothing.

The venue—The Perch & Quill—had been secured for the occasion. Once a quiet teahouse, it had since transformed into a salon of sorts, a haven for the poetic and peculiar. Its walls bore portraits of writers who never quite found fame, and its wine list was far too long for a place with so few chairs. It was neither a formal affair nor a free-for-all, but that rare sort of gathering where guests weren’t merely invited to attend—but to contribute.

There would be readings and recitations, songs half-finished and wholly felt, improvised duets and confessions tucked between applause. The sort of night that defied categorization—part salon, part send-off, and entirely Jonah.

With Jonah came the unspoken certainty that the Greenvales would be near as well. Mr. Silas Greenvale, in particular, had a way of appearing at any moment charged with feeling: a summer storm in the shape of a man, eyes bright with mischief and memory. And though I’d have gladly denied it to anyone who asked, there was a flicker of something in me that hoped he’d be there.

We arrived just past ten, the estate drowsy with music and wine. Lady Addison Cross was already deep in laughter with someone who gestured too wildly to be sober. Miss Ivy Greenvale had vanished hours earlier. Mr. Jack Barley nursed a drink near the veranda, arguing about poetry with a man in a velvet waistcoat.

Jonah spotted us as we entered, offered a grin, and vanished just as quickly, guitar in hand, bound for the stage. Lady Thatcher was soon swept into conversation near the mantlepiece, and Mr. Winslow—ever the loyal observer—remained just behind her, a quiet anchor in a sea of revelry.

The night unraveled in fragments—laughter, smoke, the clink of glasses, applause for half-finished ballads and spontaneous sonnets. But my attention frayed. Something in me had shifted. I stepped outside sometime after one, feet unsteady not from drink but from the gravity of it all—the music, the memory, the unshakeable ache of wanting something I’d already let go.

I thought I was alone.

Until I heard his footsteps.

“You’re not really yourself when you’re around them,” came the voice behind me.

I didn’t have to turn around. The cadence alone gave him away—carefully casual, rehearsed to sound unrehearsed.

“Still stalking shadows, are we, Silas?” I said without stopping.

He chuckled and caught up, falling into step beside me like we hadn’t rehearsed this dance a hundred times before.

“Not stalking. Just… worried.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stopped walking. I didn’t.

“Hey,” he called. “Come on. Just—stop for a second.”

I did. But only because my anger was louder than my exhaustion.

I turned slowly to face him, arms crossed.

“What is it this time?” I asked. “Jealous of Jonah? Jack? Or was it Ivy tonight? Or maybe Addison—you never did like not being the center of gravity.”

“I’m not jealous,” Mr. Silas Greenvale said, stepping closer. “I’m concerned.”

“That’s a new costume for you.”

He looked at me—really looked—and the air shifted. He stepped forward again, gently backing me against the brick wall of the alley.

“You’re fading,” he said. “Every time I see you, there’s less of you left.”

I scoffed. “Maybe there’s just more of everyone else.”

For a second, something flickered in his expression—hurt? Or guilt? But he recovered quickly, the way he always does.

“You and I… we’ve always—”

“No,” I cut in. “Don’t say we. I’m not interested in being a part of a ‘we’ right now.”

Silence. The only sound was the hum of the city—distant traffic, a wind brushing through scaffolding.

“I need to figure out who I am without your voice echoing in my head,” I said quietly. “Without feeling like I’m just your echo.”

Silas's jaw tightened, but he didn’t move.

Finally, he whispered, “And if you find you don’t like what you are without me?”

I swallowed. My throat felt dry.

“Then at least I’ll know it’s mine.”

He stepped back.

But Silas never stays gone for long.

By the time I reached the edge of the square, he was leaning against a lamppost like he’d been there for hours, haloed in the flickering amber light, arms crossed, eyes too bright.

“You’re not walking away because you need space,” Silas said. “You’re walking away because you’re trying to prove you can live without me.”

I froze. The accusation wasn’t wrong—but it wasn’t right either.

He took a step closer, and suddenly the air smelled like summer—lemongrass, firecrackers, and something sweet-smoked and wild. That was the danger of Silas Greenvale: he didn’t just show up. He arrived in full bloom. A high you didn’t know you were chasing—until it was already blooming behind your eyes, humming in your bloodstream.

“You talk like I’m the weight,” he said. “But you forget I’m the lift.”

“I don’t want a lift,” I replied. “I want a foundation.”

He smiled, eyes dark with something complicated.

“You’re mistaking elevation for instability.”

“No,” I said. “I’m mistaking you for freedom when you’re just escape dressed up as intimacy.”

That stopped him.

For the first time all night, he didn’t have a retort. Just a long, measured look that bordered on reverent.

“You’ll miss me,” he said. Not a threat—just a fact.

“I already do,” I whispered.

And then I kept walking.

This time, he didn’t follow.

Faithfully Yours, Lord Nicholas Northwood