Palimpsest Hearts

Rain sheeted against Mayfair House's leaded windows as Lucian Sinclair surfaced from chemical-laced sleep. His fingers trembled against the wheelchair's joystick - not from the lingering effects of lorazepam, but the disorientation of temporal whiplash. Two lifetimes crowded his skull: one ending in twisted steel on the M25, the other in this same four-poster bed with Malcolm's final text burning through his phone.

22:17 glowed blood-red on his Patek Philippe. Through the cocaine-blue haze of moonlit corridors, the murmur of voices drew him toward the east wing's service stairwell.

Servants' Parlour - 22:34 PM

"...insists on kippers for breakfast despite the cardiologist's orders," Mr. Pembroke was saying, polishing a Georgian teapot. "You'll find the household accounts in the—good lord, must you sit like a dockworker?"

Finn Fitzgerald perched on a scullery stool, his Saint Michael's blazer streaked with grave mud. The boy resembled nothing so much as a half-drowned sparrow hauled from the Thames - all sharp angles and defiance barely masking terror.

"Eat," the butler nudged a plate of Battenberg cake. "Master Lucian's orders."

"Not hungry." The teen's voice cracked. Through the doorway, Lucian noted how Finn's gaze kept snagging on the property deeds left carelessly by the samovar - Fitzgerald Manor's title transferred to Sinclair Holdings in crisp black ink.

Lucian cleared his throat. Three heads snapped up: Pembroke, a scullery maid, and the boy who now vibrated with barely leashed fury.

"Sir! Shall I prepare your—"

"Leave us." The wheelchair's whisper across flagstones silenced the room. When the staff retreated, Lucian appraised his charge. Mud caked the boy's Church's loafers - the same pair Malcolm had worn to their disastrous Oxford reunion dinner. "You've been digging."

Finn's chin jerked toward the window. Beyond the rhododendron maze, the Fitzgerald mausoleum glowed under security lights. "Wanted to check...wanted to be sure they..." A shudder passed through him.

Lucian noted the raw fingertips, the clotted earth beneath nails. "Graverobbing is illegal under the 1857 Act."

"Not robbing! Just..." The teen's composure shattered. "The groundskeeper used cheap cement! My father's urn was...was..."

Ah. Lucian recalled the midnight call from Highgate Cemetery's superintendent. A broken crypt door. A teenager screaming curses in Mandarin. "Your Mandarin tutor would weep at that pronunciation."

The non sequitur stunned Finn into silence. Lucian wheeled to the drinks cabinet, extracting a 1945 Macallan. "Three options: Pembroke draws you a bath, I call the child services, or you explain why Fitzgerald Manor's deed matters more than your family's bones."

East Wing Bathroom - 23:11 PM

Steam coiled from clawfoot tub to vaulted ceiling. Finn stared at the monogrammed towels (LCS) and tried not to retch. Everything reeked of him - the sandalwood soap, the Japanese razors, even the goddamned bath salts glittering like crushed diamonds.

"Master Fitzgerald?" Pembroke rapped the door. "Shall I launder those...garments?"

Finn hunched deeper into the scalding water. Let the old buzzard choke on his mud-caked briefs. Let the whole Mayfair mausoleum—

The door clicked open.

Finn froze. Through the etched glass partition, a wheelchair's silhouette materialized. "Your stubbornness is wasting hot water." Lucian's voice carried the edge that broke junior executives. "Out. Now."

Panic ignited. "I'm decent!"

"Decent men don't skulk in bathrooms." The partition slid open.

What happened next would haunt Finn through Eton's showers, through Cambridge's rowing club initiations, through every boardroom negotiation with this infuriating man. Lucian Sinclair, ninth Earl of Wessex, took in the scene: the shredded Y-fronts floating like battle standards, the mud-streaked Saint Michael's tie knotted around the showerhead, the teenager attempting to vanish beneath three bubbles.

"Interesting interpretation of 'decent.'" Lucian tossed a bundle onto the heated towel rack. "My old Harrovian kit. The smalls should fit."

Finn's voice emerged strangled. "Do you always barge into—"

"When investments misbehave." The earl paused at the door. "The crypt's been resealed with Portland cement. Your father's urn is in my study."

As the boy gaped, Lucian added, "And Finn? The next time you vandalize private property, bring a chisel worthy of your outrage."

Library - 23:47 PM

Brandy snifters caught firelight as Lucian pushed the Fitzgerald Manor deed across his desk. "Sign here, and it's yours at eighteen."

Finn's damp hair dripped onto vellum. The borrowed pajamas swam on his frame - Malcolm's frame, Lucian realized with a pang. Same stubborn jawline. Same arch to the eyebrows when perplexed.

"Why?" The teen's finger traced the Sinclair crest. "You gutted our companies. Why preserve this?"

"Sentiment." Lucian's signet ring clinked against crystal. "Your brother proposed to me in that conservatory."

The admission hung between them, fragile as the Dresden figurines Finn had smashed earlier. Outside, rain needled the rose garden where Malcolm had once face-planted after over-enthusiastic croquet.

Finn's pen hovered. "What's the catch?"

"A-levels. University. No more midnight jaunts with Camden's motorhead brigade." Lucian produced a Keynsham Garage receipt. "The Volvo's brake modifications were...creative."

Color flooded the teen's face. "How did you—"

"Pembroke intercepts all post." The earl wheeled toward the hidden wall safe. "Choose wisely, Mr. Fitzgerald. This signature buys either chains or wings."

East Wing Bedroom - 00:26 AM

Finn lay staring at the crest embroidered on silk pajamas. Through the floorboards came the faint rumble of the Earl's midnight motorcade - off to stalk boardrooms or lovers' ghosts, perhaps.

Under his pillow, the garage key burned a hole. Lucian's parting words slithered through the dark: "The Volvo's parked in Mews 7. Prove you're more than a boy playing at vengeance."

Somewhere beyond Mayfair's gates, the Thames whispered of drowned secrets. Finn's fingers closed around Malcolm's signet ring, still warm from the earl's safe.

When dawn gilded the Serpentine, the Volvo's engine roared to life - not with Malcolm's beloved Oasis, but with the scream of rebuilt hydraulics. Let the earl play chessmaster. Finn Fitzgerald would engineer his own damn gambit.