Chapter 4Mercy in Disguise

The day the Grand Army returned to Kingsport, Alistair specifically requested leave from the Royal Collegiate. Now twenty-one, Alistair possessed the radiant countenance of polished jade and eyes that sparkled like distant stars. He bowed deeply to me.

"Willow," he said, his voice gentle, "I would be honored if you and Silas would accompany me to witness the Grand Army's return today."

I nodded in agreement. Even if he hadn't asked, I would have gone. I yearned to see if Ethan was among the returning soldiers. For five years, the Miller family had sent countless letters to the border garrisons, yet not a single reply had ever arrived. I wondered if Ethan was still alive. If he was, why had he sent no word home for five long years?

After we were ready, Alistair cradled Silas in his arms and led me to the main thoroughfare. He guided me to a window seat on the second floor of a tea house overlooking the street – a spot he had reserved a month in advance.

This meant he had known about the army's return for weeks, yet he had never mentioned it at home.

The vantage point was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I could clearly see Ethan, astride his warhorse, accepting a young child from the red-clad woman riding beside him. His gaze, as he looked at the child, was brimming with fatherly affection. That child bore a striking resemblance to Silas.

Silas, sensing my distress, pointed at the general again. "Mama," he chirped, "that man looks a bit like Uncle Alistair, doesn't he?"

Alistair, standing beside me, must have seen it too. He, who was usually so composed, so unperturbed by anything, now cast his gaze downward, a hint of guilt in his posture.

Silas, oblivious to his uncle's sudden silence, continued to point. "No, wait!" Silas's eyes widened. "He looks more like the papa in the painting! But Mama, why is Papa holding someone else's baby?" The "papa in the painting" was a portrait Alistair had drawn for Silas, to help him recognize his father.

I glanced around, ensuring no one was paying us any heed, then frantically covered Silas's mouth.

"Nonsense!" I choked out, my voice raw. "That's not your papa."

He once was, perhaps. But now, he wasn't. And he never would be again. He had ascended to the heights of ambition, climbed to a position of power, and found his heart's desire. Silas and I, we couldn't have stopped him.

Silas struggled, prying at my hand with his small fingers.

Alistair stepped forward, bowing deeply to me. "I... I didn't know…" His eyes, usually so clear, now held a rare flicker of remorse.

I shook my head, cutting him off. "It's nothing. It's not your fault." How could it be his fault? He had merely allowed me to witness the truth with my own eyes. A general riding a warhorse would be at least a fifth-rank official. And a fifth-rank general would certainly not be nameless. If he had a name, Alistair, a scholar at the Royal Collegiate, would surely know it. Knowing this, he would have investigated Ethan.

I just wondered what would become of Silas now that Ethan had married into a powerful family.

Alistair cleared his throat, his voice low. "I truly had no idea they had a child. This... this scene, it was not what I intended. I swear, Willow, the Miller family will make this right."

Silas blinked, looking from me to Alistair, his small face etched with confusion. "Uncle Alistair, is that Papa's baby he's holding? What about me, then? Will Papa recognize me?"

Alistair reached out to embrace Silas, but for the first time, Silas pulled away from his uncle.

"Uncle Alistair," Silas whispered, his voice trembling, "Silas is... a little sad." With that, he buried his face in my embrace, and in moments, his tiny shoulders began to tremble with silent sobs.

Alistair looked utterly devastated. "Willow…"

I spoke, cutting him off once more. "Let's go home. Silas needs his nap."

Alistair nodded, his face etched with regret, and led us back to the cottage.