A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 84: Slow Compromises

And just like clockwork—because it always was with him—she heard a step behind her. A faint rustle. The soft scrape of a shoe against old stone. She didn't turn. Not at first.

"Hi," James said.

She let the word settle between them before answering.

"Hi."

Her voice didn't crack. She was oddly grateful for that.

He didn't come closer right away. Just stood there a moment, like he was still deciding whether this counted as a mistake. Then he stepped up beside her, slow and deliberate, and sat on the ledge a short distance away. Not close. But not far either.

The silence between them wasn't sharp. Not like last time. It felt... suspended. Like a held breath. He looked at her, not directly, but enough to study the outline of her face in the starlight.

"How've you been?" he asked quietly.

She glanced down at her hands resting on the stone.

"Alright," she said. "Busy with our practicals prep."

A pause. He nodded like that made sense.

"I saw your picture," he said. "In the Prophet."

There it was. She didn't flinch. But her spine straightened slightly, as if bracing for wind that hadn't come yet.

"And?" she asked. Her voice was measured. Not cold. Just... armoured.

The wind picked up a little, tugging at her sleeves. She let it. Her fingers were cold now. She didn't care.

James leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You went quiet on me."

She inhaled through her nose but said nothing.

"Why?"

Her eyes drifted back to the sky. "Because I didn't want to lie. And I couldn't tell the truth."

That landed heavier than she intended. It wasn't bitterness. It was just the truth, laid out like a knife between them.

James didn't move.

His voice was low when he spoke again, careful. "Do you know what happened to Cal Ainsley?"

Anastasia's breath caught—just slightly—but it was enough. She couldn't form the word. Couldn't shape the syllables around a name that still felt like a wound.

So she nodded.

Once.

James stared at the edge of the ledge, his hand twitching where it rested on the stone. "Is he alive?"

She didn't speak. Just lowered her head, eyes falling to the tips of her shoes.

Then—barely perceptible—she shook her head.

No.

James exhaled. Not sharply. Not broken. Just... resigned. Like he'd already known, and still hoped to be wrong.

Another silence.

Then—

"Did you make him give up those addresses?"

That was too direct.

She turned toward him, slow, a strange expression pulling at the corners of her mouth. Not anger. Not even bitterness.

She smiled.

A tired, quiet thing. Not quite sad. Not quite amused.

And her eyes—