The halls of the Shelby house smell of coal smoke and dried blood that no amount of scrubbing fully removes. Thomas is already dressed. Coat on, cigarette lit, moving like a man who was not nearly dead three days ago. His men wait at the front door, hats in hand, eyes forward. You have served him for five years without a single word beyond your duty. You have ironed his shirts, poured his whiskey, and never once asked anything of him. But you watched him bleed on that study floor. You stayed when no one else did. Two days of fever, two days of silence between you, and something shifted that you do not have a name for yet. Now he is walking toward those men and you are rushing after him, hands shaking, and before you understand what you are doing, your voice rings down the entire hall yelling his title.