Palimpsest Hearts

Dawn bled through Mayfair House's east wing as Finn Fitzgerald awoke to the scent of bergamot and defeat. The monogrammed sheets (LCS) tangled around his legs - a silk prison reminding him daily of his benefactor's initials. Through leaded windows, the skeletal outline of Fitzgerald Manor's gates mocked him from three streets away. Lucian Sinclair had preserved his family's ancestral home like a taxidermist stuffing a prized fox.

Downstairs, chaos reigned. Pembroke's polished brogues squeaked across marble as he herded the Siberian husky ("Lord Lucian's absurdly named 'Joy'") away from disintegrating tax documents. Finn crouched to gather the papers, his Saint Michael's tie grazing dog hair-strewn Persian rugs.

"Leave it," Lucian's voice sliced through the morning bustle. The earl wheeled into the breakfast nook, his Savile Row suit already crisply aligned for battle. "That husky's shedding costs more annually than your education."

Finn's fingers tightened around a shredded profit margin report. "I could—"

"Could what? Brush her? Walk her? Pretend this isn't penance for your midnight crypt excursion?" Lucian snapped open the Financial Times. "Eat. Your Mandarin tutor arrives at nine."

The teen stared at kippers congealing in their silver chafing dish. Across the table, Lucian's untouched espresso sent bitter tendrils through air already thick with unspoken rules. When the earl's phone buzzed with a Canary Wharf alert, Finn seized his chance.

"I'll exercise Joy after lessons." The offer hung between them, vulnerable as the Dresden shepherd Finn had shattered last week.

Lucian's gaze remained fixed on Bloomberg terminals. "She disemboweled a Fabergé egg collector last Tuesday. Leash her with the Hermès harness."

---

Sinclair Holdings - 10:17 AM

Rain needled the Gherkin's glass skin as Lucian's motorcade sliced through financial district traffic. In the backseat, Victor Chen (CFO, Cambridge rowing blue, chronic over-sharer) brandished a tablet like Excalibur.

"The vultures are circling," Victor warned. "Marlowe's offering twelve million for the Berkshire Downs parcel. Half its value!"

Lucian adjusted his gloves. "Counter with twenty."

"Lu, that land's swampier than Prince Andrew's reputation after Epstein—"

"Precisely." The earl's smile chilled the limo's interior. "Let Marlowe drown in his own hubris."

As they entered the boardroom's shark tank, Lucian noted the players: Sir John Marlowe (property magnate, gout enthusiast), Amanda Zhou (shipping heiress, his ex-fiancée's cousin), and the ever-present ghost of Malcolm Fitzgerald smirking from memory's shadows.

"Sinclair!" Marlowe's cigar ash snowed onto conference table mahogany. "Heard you're liquidating poor Fitz's assets. Shame about that Alpine business, eh?"

Amanda's Louboutins kicked Lucian's wheelchair footrest. "We're here for the Berkshire contract, not melodrama."

Three hours later, Lucian emerged with bloodstained quill pen (Marlowe's gout flare) and a signed agreement for £18.7 million. Victor trailed him, spreadsheet eyes wide.

"You knew about the underground springs! That land's worthless by '25!"

"All land's worthless when climate change drowns your profit margins." Lucian handed Victor a USB drive. "Now leak those hydrology reports to The Guardian."

---

Mayfair House - 6:48 PM

Finn found Lucian in the orangery, whisky tumbler catching sunset through diseased orange trees. The earl's fingers massaged his left temple - a tic Finn recognized from calculus exams when equations threatened mutiny.

"Pembroke said you're unwell."

"Pembroke should polish silverware, not diagnose." Lucian's glare softened at the sight of Joy's new diamanté collar. "The husky's accessorized like a Russian oligarch's mistress."

Finn hovered by the wisteria arch. "I...noticed your medication."

"Noticed or rifled through?"

"Prescription labels fade when bottles roll under beds."

The confession hung between them, fragrant with citrus and lies. Somewhere beyond the glass, Joy howled at early stars.

Lucian wheeled toward Malcolm's preserved rose garden. "Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade four. Satisfied?"

Finn's Mandarin flashcards fluttered to the tiles. "But you're—"

"Thirty-two going on sixty? So it seems." The earl crushed a dead rose petal. "Your brother's crash, my boardroom wars...turns out the true assassin nests here." He tapped his temple.

---

Harley Street Clinic - 9:03 PM

Dr. Eleanor Whitcombe's penlight probed Lucian's pupils. "The headaches began when?"

"Six weeks post-temporal relocation."

The neurologist paused. "Pardon?"

"Post-Malcolm," Lucian amended. Through the examination room's soundproofing, Big Ben's chimes warred with MRI hums.

Whitcombe's diagnosis mirrored his previous life's verdict: inoperable tumor nestled like a spider in his occipital lobe. As she outlined treatment options (palliative care, clinical trials, Swiss euthanasia clinics), Lucian mentally drafted legacy documents. Finn's trust fund. Joy's kennel fees. The husky would outlive them all.

---

**Mayfair House Library - 11:47 PM**

Finn found the earl amidst Dante first editions, IV drip snaking from his wrist to a heart monitor. "You should rest."

"Should is a luxury," Lucian slurred, morphine softening his consonants. "The Berkshire sale proceeds will cover your Cambridge fees. Marlowe's ruin buys you five years' protection."

Finn gripped the wheelchair's handles. "I don't want protection. I want—"

"Vengeance?" Lucian's laugh sparked a coughing fit. "I'm rather busy dying, child."

The teen knelt, Malcolm's signet ring cold between their pressed palms. "Then live. Out of spite. Out of...whatever this is." His gesture encompassed dog hair tumbleweeds and shared IV stands.

Outside, Joy howled a dirge for dying masters and the boys who'd become their keepers.