Ten years later
The Fitzgeralt manor had always been lively, but today it thrummed with a particular kind of electricity, one that only appeared when one of the boys came home.
Windstone had tried, unsuccessfully, to maintain order for the past hour. Dean had done at least three laps around the foyer, two around the courtyard, and one through Trevor's office before being gently redirected toward the entrance.
"Dean," Windstone warned, voice calm but carrying the weight of forty years of experience. "If you run down that staircase again, I will inform your father that you attempted to vault the bannister."
Dean, ten years old and glowing with excitement, skidded to a stop. "I didn't vault it," he said earnestly. "I just… leaned."
