In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Keeper of the Secret Name

April 30th, 1932 – Evermoor Hall, One Month Before the Ritual

The spring air had changed again. Gone was the cool edge of March, replaced by a soft, full warmth that filtered through Evermoor's high windows and left golden shapes dancing across every surface the light could touch. The manor was alive with quiet. Not silence—never that—but with the gentle sounds of routine: a page turning in the library, the clink of enchanted dishware resetting itself in the kitchen, a soft hum of wind brushing against the charm-held glass.

Tom was lying in the conservatory beneath the lantern tree, legs stretched over a cushion, fox figurine tucked under one arm, and a book open across his chest. His eyes were closed, but Harrison could tell he wasn't asleep.

He was thinking.

He did that a lot, lately.

Harrison stepped in, a tray of lemon tea and strawberry biscuits balanced in one hand. Dobby had insisted on preparing the tray himself, and Mina had made the biscuits in the early morning hours. Their quiet, collective gestures had become as familiar as rain now. Acts of love. Anchors.

Tom opened one eye at the sound of footsteps and sat up slowly.

"Tea?" Harrison offered, placing the tray on the small table beside him.

Tom nodded. "Thank you."

They settled in together, sipping in silence for a few minutes. The air smelled like mint from the nearby planters and wildflowers blooming along the window ledge. The Mimic Root rustled and stretched in its pot like a sleepy cat.

Then, after a time, Harrison spoke.

"We're a month out now."

Tom's eyes didn't lift from his cup. But he nodded once, clearly knowing what Harrison meant.

"The ritual," Harrison said gently. "It's close. We don't have to talk about it right now, but I wanted to let you know I've already begun setting the deeper wards. The room is nearly ready."

Tom was quiet.

Then—still not looking up—he murmured, "I think I've picked a name."

Harrison's heart stilled.

He looked over slowly, setting his cup down with more care than necessary.

"You have?"

Tom nodded.

"Do you want to tell me?"

A beat.

Tom shook his head. "Not yet."

That surprised him. "Why?"

Tom's lips tugged down at the corners, not in anger, but in careful consideration.

"Because if I say it out loud," he said, "it'll feel like it belongs to the world before it belongs to me."

Harrison blinked, then gave a small, proud smile.

"That's fair."

Tom glanced up then, hesitant, but steady. "Is that okay?"

"More than okay."

Harrison leaned back, folding his hands over his knee. "So... a hint?"

Tom's expression shifted into something halfway between amusement and mischief. A rare thing, but precious.

"I found it in a book Euphemia sent me," he said, clearly choosing the words with care. "After she found out I was scared to pick something that wouldn't... fit."