By the time Dean Fitzgeralt turned eighteen, the manor had developed a new category of silence, one that hovered between parental dread and the kind of anticipatory resignation normally reserved for weather warnings.
Trevor recognized it immediately.
Lucas felt it in his bones.
Windstone had already prepared towels, cold packs, and a mop.
And Sebastian, now twenty-four and dangerously serene in the way only an eldest sibling could be, sat at the kitchen island with a mug of tea and said without looking up from his tablet, "It's happening, isn't it?"
Trevor didn't answer, but his eyes flicked to the staircase.
Lucas placed his phone down, face already tightening with old familiarity. "The fever started last night. He tried to hide it."
Sebastian snorted. "Of course he did. He thinks stealth is a personality trait."
Windstone passed through the kitchen with a tray of medications and uttered the resigned phrase he had perfected during two generations of Fitzgeralt chaos:
