The morning had the kind of quiet that made mischief taste sweeter.
Sunlight threaded through the lattice and scattered itself across the courtyard stones in neat, lattice-shaped patterns—patterns that would not survive the day. Today, the children were home. A short academy holiday had released Arin and Lysa into the house like two opposing weather fronts, and for a man who taught calm and patience for a living, this was not ideal.
For me, it was predictably exactly that.
"Today is real training day!" Arin announced from the doorway, a wooden spoon held aloft like a banner. He wore that expression—the one that meant he had made a very important decision and expected the universe to cooperate.
Lysa slipped in behind him, quiet as ever. She folded her arms and studied her brother with carefully measured tolerance. "If by 'real training' you mean not breaking anything dangerous," she said coolly, "then sure." Her tone had its usual edge, but I caught the softness beneath it—the brief tilt of her eyes when they flicked toward me.
I spread my fingers, still half-expecting to feel phantom bandages. "Alright," I said, aiming for authority. "Let's keep it sensible. Balance and posture. Some footwork. No acrobatics. And for the love of every scroll in my study—keep the ink away from your dramatic flourishes."
Arin's grin barely dimmed. "Yes, Father! We will be very careful. We will be strategic. Like generals!"
He spun. The spoon followed. Physics filed a formal complaint.
From the doorway, Avaris watched with an expression I had learned to read fluently: amused, mildly concerned, and entirely in control. One hand slid into her apron pocket as she shook her head. "If generals train with spoons," she said dryly, "I'd like to see the logistics report."
Her calm settled over me like a practical blanket.
"Very well," I sighed, smiling despite myself. "Form, breath, and perhaps—" I paused, feeling the faint tremor in my hands. Teaching would be gentle. Teaching would be instructive. Teaching would not be catastrophic. That was the plan.
I stacked a few small sacks in the yard—rice, flour, a few training weights disguised as household goods. I called it the science of leverage. Scholars enjoy metaphors, especially when they can pretend they planned them.
"Show us!" Arin demanded. "Show us the leverage!"
"All right," I conceded, demonstrating slowly. "Lift with your legs. Use your knees like springs. Imagine—" I sketched an invisible arch with my hands. "—that the ground is apprenticeship, and your body is the ink that takes the lesson."
Arin squinted. "So… lift like I'm writing a very important sentence?"
"Exactly," I said solemnly. "Precisely that."
He bent, grabbed the sack, and heaved.
For a heartbeat, the yard held its breath.
The sack rose. Higher than it should have.
Arin beamed like he'd discovered a continent.
"Very good!" I said quickly. "But careful with the—"
The sack left his hands entirely and sailed toward the shelf where I kept my pigments and one deeply fragile vase.
Time slowed.
Arin froze. Lysa moved.
She stepped forward, precise and fluid, and shoved the shelf sideways just enough. The sack landed with a dull thud where disaster had been. The vase wobbled, slid, and—against all reason—remained upright.
Arin burst into relieved laughter.
I made a noise that was half scolding and half near-death.
"The vase will forgive us," Avaris said evenly, having crossed the yard without haste. "Try not to give it a reason to be bitter."
I sat down harder than intended and scribbled a note: Supervise Arin's exuberance. Avoid theatrical sack technique.
"I learned leverage!" Arin declared proudly.
"For the record," Lysa said, "you launched a bag of rice like a siege weapon."
"Tactical arc," Arin corrected.
"Learning opportunity," I said, rubbing my temples.
We moved on. Footwork. Balance. A log rolled into place. Arin narrated every step like a stage commander until he tripped, somersaulted, and lay laughing in the dirt.
Lysa corrected his stance with a quiet word and a tug. She flicked his ear when he overdid it—sharp, restrained, and caring in a way she would never admit.
I watched them and felt that strange, grounding pride. Not because they were strong—but because they were them. Alive. Learning. Loud and quiet in equal measure.
Then I made a mistake disguised as a clever idea.
A fulcrum.
"It's simple," I said, balancing a beam across two blocks. "Small inputs. Larger results."
Lysa placed her hand perfectly. Pressed. The basket lifted as if it obeyed her.
Arin shoved.
Paper flew. A scroll drifted through the air and landed neatly in front of Mrs. Corbett's cat, who seized it and fled.
Mrs. Corbett laughed from her window.
Everyone froze.
She didn't sound angry. She sounded interested.
That unsettled me more.
Later, when the gate creaked and nearly fell, Arin caught it. Held it. Became its hinge. Lysa moved in perfect tandem, saving the herb rack with minimal effort.
For one breath, Avaris's expression sharpened.
Then she clapped once. "Pity the fence has standards," she said lightly, and hugged them both.
"Good reflexes," I managed.
Mrs. Corbett leaned over the fence. "Strong as saplings," she murmured. Curious. Thoughtful.
That night, I wrote my notes and found myself pausing over her words.
Strong as saplings.
It wasn't accusation. It was notice.
I tucked the thought away like a loose button. Tomorrow could worry about it.
For now, I had children to teach, a wife to tease, and a courtyard that still smelled faintly of rice and near-disaster.
But the gate's creak lingered.
Like a question.