Erwin accepted the black tea from Cassandra and took a sip. "What are the odds he'll pull through?"
"Uncertain," she replied. "The Roberts are in a right state. They've already called in Healers from the hospital, and the family has a stock of restorative potions. He should be fine."
Erwin nodded. "Good enough for me. As long as he's not kicking the bucket. Let's go see him—they helped me out, after all. Only proper we pay a visit."
Erwin considered himself a man of principle. Whether anyone else agreed was beside the point; he didn't lose sleep over it.
Cassandra set his teacup aside and followed him downstairs.
The Roberts' manor buzzed with frantic activity. Family members dashed about, tending wounds and issuing orders. Erwin scanned the room and winced—nearly everyone bore some injury, bandages stark against their pale skin. They were a battered lot.
He collared the nearest Robert. The man halted mid-stride and bowed hastily. "Mr. Cavendish!"
"Take me to your patriarch," Erwin said.
The man nodded without hesitation. Patriarch Robert had issued strict orders: any request from Cavendish was to be granted immediately, no questions asked.
They reached a dimly lit chamber. The metallic tang of blood hit Erwin as he crossed the threshold. Cassandra wordlessly offered a handkerPatriarch; he pressed it to his nose and stepped inside.
Several Healers hovered over Patriarch Robert's bed, their wands tracing glowing arcs to knit his wounds. Empty crystal vials cluttered a nearby cabinet—freshly drained restorative potions.
Patriarch Robert lay pale and still, a jagged gash marring his chest. The bleeding had stopped, but the injury looked vicious, raw edges barely held together by hasty spells.
Patriarch Robert spotted Erwin and straightened at once. "Mr. Cavendish!"
"How's your father?" Erwin asked, approaching the bed.
"The Healers say he's out of danger," Patriarch Robert replied, "but he'll need time to recover."
Erwin moved to the cabinet and lifted one of the vials, giving it a cautious sniff. He shook his head. Solid ingredients, but the brewer had botched the process—effects half-wasted, a criminal squandering of rare herbs.
From his enchanted ring, Erwin produced a vial of his own and handed it over. "Give this to him."
Patriarch Robert accepted it eagerly and passed it to a nearby Healer. The man uncorked it, inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened. "Remarkable! The essences are perfectly balanced—every property drawn out to its fullest. This brewing technique is masterful."
"You've got an eye for it," Erwin said. "Now get it into him."
The Healer nodded and tilted the vial to Patriarch Robert's lips. Though groggy, the old man swallowed instinctively. Color flooded his cheeks almost instantly, the potion working its magic with swift precision.
Patriarch Robert stared in awe. "Mr. Cavendish, what is this? The effect is miraculous!"
"Something whipped up by Severus Snape, Hogwarts' Potions Master," Erwin explained. "Tailored for severe injuries."
Patriarch Robert's eyes flashed with respect. "From the youngest master brewer in the business? That's priceless. Thank you, sir."
Erwin waved it off. "Don't mention it. You've been in my corner; least I can do if you're laid up."
In that moment, Patriarch Robert glimpsed why his father had insisted their alliance with Cavendish was no mistake.
Soon, Patriarch Robert stirred and opened his eyes. Spotting Erwin, he tried to sit up.
Erwin pressed him back gently. "Easy there. No need to play the hero."
"Thank you, Mr. Cavendish," Patriarch Robert rasped.
Patriarch Robert quickly filled him in on the potion. Gratitude softened the old man's features. "You've done too much already, sir."
"Save the thanks," Erwin said. "You handled things well out there. Deserve the credit."
Patriarch Robert inclined his head. "Your praise honors us."
Erwin fell silent. Patriarch Robert glanced at his son. "Take the others and clear out."
Patriarch Robert nodded and ushered his men from the room without a word. Moments later, only Erwin, Patriarch Robert, and Cassandra remained.
"Sir," Patriarch Robert began, his voice steadying, "I want to secure something for the Robert family's future—our standing, our influence."
Erwin chuckled. "After what you lot just pulled for me? With you all banged up like this, the Roberts are already tied to the Cavendish name. What's this about bolstering your position?"
"You know what I mean," Patriarch Robert pressed. "I understand why you called on us this time. We're willing to serve as your eyes and ears in America—the Cavendish spies amid the chaos. But you know how it is here: too many rival families, the Diggs at the top of the heap. We'll face headwinds. I need assurance—more backing from you to shield us."
Erwin's laugh faded into a thoughtful smile. "You've thought this through, haven't you?"
"The Roberts pledge our full loyalty," Patriarch Robert said. "Everything we have. But if things go south—if our strength crumbles in this mess and we can't hold on—I ask only that you safeguard a remnant. Keep our line alive."
Erwin listened without interrupting.
Patriarch Robert took the silence as encouragement. He swung his legs over the bed's edge, ignoring the twinge in his chest, and stood. "If you wouldn't mind, sir—walk with me?"
"Lead on," Erwin said.
Patriarch Robert shuffled forward, Erwin close behind. Patriarch Robert waited outside and moved to steady his father. "Father?"
Patriarch Robert nodded. "Let's go."
With Patriarch Robert's support, they descended toward the basement. Erwin and Cassandra trailed at a measured pace.
...
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