Empire

Two: It was just a question

Evening came slowly to Thornbury in that stretch of the year, with the sky holding onto its light long after the shops had shuttered for the day. By the time the Yellowsmith family sat down to supper, the last of it was fading to a soft grey-blue beyond the kitchen window.

Two days had passed since Alice's wedding—and two days since the captain's heavy silver coin had found its way into Luke’s coat pocket. It sat like a piece of hot coal against his hip, ticking down the hours. We sail in three days' time on the morning tide, the captain had warned. That meant tomorrow at dawn.

The house had settled back into its usual rhythm—smaller now, and quieter, with one less voice at the table and one less set of footsteps on the stairs. Eleanor had said as much twice already that evening, in the wistful way mothers spoke of daughters newly married, and Edward had made the appropriate sounds of agreement without truly looking up from his plate. Edmund ate with the brisk efficiency of a man who had spent his day balancing ledgers and intended to return to them shortly after supper. Beatrice picked at her food and talked, as she often did, about nothing in particular and everything at once—a girl at school, a dog she had seen by the harbor, whether Alice's new house had a proper garden.

Luke said little.

He turned a piece of bread over between his fingers without eating it while his fingers occasionally reached into his pocket to feel the cold, hard edge of the coin. He needed to know if the captain's words were a trick or the truth before the morning tide made the choice for him.

He waited until the lull between Beatrice's chatter and his mother's next remark opened just wide enough to fill.

"Father," he said, "did you ever go beyond the docks when you were young? Out past Thornbury, I mean. Before all this?" The question landed strangely in the kitchen.

Edmund's fork paused halfway to his mouth and Beatrice fell silent, looking between her father and brother with open curiosity. Edward set down his fork with a care that suggested he was choosing not to set it down harder.

"What sort of question is that to ask at supper?"

"An honest one," Luke said. "I only wondered."

"You only wondered," Edward repeated. It was not quite a question and not quite an accusation, but something carefully balanced between the two.

"And what, exactly, have you been wondering about, Luke?" Eleanor's hand found her husband's sleeve beneath the table. "Edward—"

"No. Let him finish." Edward's eyes remained on his son. "Go on, then. Ask whatever it is you've clearly been sitting on since the wedding." Luke set the bread down at last and met his father's eyes across the table.

"I was wondering if you ever thought about leaving. Or if a debt kept you here."

The room went dead quiet again as Eleanor’s hand froze over the bread basket.

Edward's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"The captain who came to the shop before the wedding," Luke pressed, meeting his father's gaze across the table. "He said there are fortunes made in three months out there. But he also mentioned something about you owing him seventeen years ago from the night I was born."

Edward’s face turned ash-white before flushing a dark, dangerous red. He slammed his hand against the table, making the cutlery jump. "That man is a vulture who feeds on the foolishness of boys who think the sea owes them a living!"

“But think about the fortunes that could be made in three months, whole lives changed by a single good voyage. You mean to tell me you exchanged that for all of this?" Luke gestured, not unkindly, at the table, the kitchen, the modest walls around them.

"All of this…" Edward repeated slowly. Something tightened at the corner of his mouth. "You say that as though this life were a cage, Luke!" Edward barked, standing up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floorboards. "A life your mother and I built with our own hands that has fed you and kept a roof over your head!”

“That's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?"

“You will not speak of that man in this house, you will not go near the docks, and you will not bring shadow and shame to this family over stories born of salt and gin!" Edward said as he slapped the table again.

"Edward, please—" Eleanor pleaded again as her hand found her husband's sleeve.

Edward pointed a stern finger at Luke. "Nerve is easy to admire in another man's mouth. But I chose what was certain. I chose this family. And if I catch you near those piers again, so help me, you will not step foot in my shop again."

He turned and strode out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs until his bedroom door slammed shut.

Silence settled over the table like iron as Beatrice stared with wide, frightened eyes.

"I only wondered," Luke said again, whispering now.

Eleanor gave him a pointed look while she quietly cleared the plates, then climbed up the stairs to meet her husband.

Luke sighed as he also stood up to retreat to his room.

An hour later, Luke sat by his window, watching the last lamplight flicker along Cutler's Row. The silver coin sat flat on his desk, glinting under the pale moonlight.

A knock at his door broke the quiet.

"It's open," Luke muttered.

Edmund stepped in, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He glanced at the silver coin on the desk, his jaw tightening, before settling against the edge of the frame.

"You hit a nerve tonight, little brother," Edmund said, his tone stripped of its usual warmth. "A dangerous one."

"He didn't deny it," Luke said softly. "The debt is real."

"It doesn't matter!" Edmund pushed off the frame, stepping closer until his posture filled the small room. "Do you have any idea what Father went through the year you were born? He did what he had to do to keep us from starving when the winter trade failed! He took on burdens so you could grow up with a home. And you stand at dinner and throw it in his face like an insult!"

Luke looked down at the desk, the harsh truth hitting him like a physical blow.

"Father broke his back so we wouldn't be beholden to men like that captain," Edmund continued, his voice dropping into a quiet, unyielding whisper. "If you run off, you destroy everything he built to protect us. You make this family a laughingstock before you're even old enough to grow a proper beard. Is that who you want to be?"

Luke swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. "No," he muttered.

"Then prove it," Edmund demanded gently. "Leave the questions alone. Look me in the eye and give me your word that you're staying. For Father's sake, if not your own."

Luke looked at his brother, thinking of his mother's frightened face at supper and his father's worn, shaking hands.

"I give you my word," Luke lied, the promise burning like ash in his throat. "I'll stay. I won't leave."

Edmund exhaled, patting Luke’s shoulder once. "Good boy. Sleep now. We have work at the shop tomorrow."

When the door clicked shut, Luke picked up the silver coin, gripping it until the edges bit into his palm.

He had given his word. He had promised to stay.

Which meant tomorrow morning, when the tide turned at dawn, he would have to go down to the docks one last time—not to board the ship, but to hand Captain Vane his silver coin back and tell him he was staying in Thornbury forever.

If he truly had the strength to walk away.