Palimpsest Hearts

Rain blurred the Gothic spires of Highgate Cemetery as Lucian Sinclair's wheelchair left twin trails in the sodden earth. Somewhere beyond the yew trees, a groundsman's radio crackled with static - "...unseasonal snowfall expected across..." The earl barely registered the cold seeping through his Burberry trench, his gaze fixed on the fresh marble marker glowing through mist.

St. Bartholomew's Private Hospital - 15:47 PM

The CT scan glowed like a malevolent constellation. Dr. Fenwick adjusted his half-moon spectacles, tracing shadows that weren't there. "Your father's glioblastoma presented similarly at first, but—"

"Speak plainly, Charles." Lucian's signet ring clicked against the armrest. "Am I dying?"

The neurologist's laughter startled a nurse passing the door. "God no! Migraines from insomnia and overwork. Though if you keep popping those temazepam like Smarties..." He tapped the scan. "Perfectly healthy brain. Well, anatomically at least."

Lucian exhaled shavings of tension he'd carried since waking in 2016. No tumor. No countdown. Just time's cruel joke rewound. "The legs then."

Dr. Fenwick's smile dimmed. Across Harley Street, rain needled the window as Lucian's physiotherapist demonstrated the atrophy - 12% muscle mass loss in six weeks.

"Rebuilding neural pathways requires consistency." Ms. Laurent's French accent sharpened with disapproval. "Monsieur Sinclair cancels three sessions weekly. Pourquoi?"

Lucian studied his reflection in the rehabilitation mirror - the Sinclair jawline softened by exhaustion, the wheelchair's chrome gleaming like a sarcophagus. Ten years of futile effort in another lifetime. "What's the point?"

The question hung between them, fragile as the spiderweb spanning the clinic's corner. Ms. Laurent crouched, her perfume (Guerlain's Vetiver, £230/50ml) momentarily masking antiseptic. "The boy needs you vertical."

Highgate Cemetery - 17:03 PM

Snowflakes dissolved against Malcolm's epitaph - Beloved Son, Brother, Betrayed By Brakes. Lucian's gloved finger hovered over the stonemason's error he'd paid extra to preserve. Let future historians puzzle over that caustic punchline.

"Mr. Sinclair?" The new groundsman shuffled nervously. "The florist you mentioned...we've never had one here."

Lucian's throat tightened. Of course not - the cheery widow with her Sussex-grown gardenias wouldn't lease the kiosk until spring '17. Another anachronism. "My mistake."

He waved away the umbrella, snow gathering on cashmere shoulders as the caretaker retreated. Alone now with three generations of Fitzgeralds, Lucian addressed the void between headstones.

"The boy's adapting. Stole my Aston Martin keys last Tuesday. Pembroke found him asleep in the garage, hugging the steering wheel." His breath fogged the glacial air. "You'd hate how much he resembles you."

Somewhere beyond the cemetery walls, tires screeched. Lucian tensed - not the M25's distant roar, but something nearer. Closer.

East Wing Garage - Two Hours Earlier

Finn Fitzgerald stared at the DB11's gleaming hood, his reflection warped in British racing green. Pembroke's voice echoed from the wine cellar. "...master's medication regimen requires absolute—"

The keys burned in his palm. Just a sit. Maybe a sniff of leather seats still holding Malcolm's Aramis cologne. He'd return them before—

"Planning a joyride?"

Finn whirled. Lucian's wheelchair blocked the garage entrance, snow melting on woolen lapels. "I wasn't—"

"Spare me." The earl produced a Monopoly board. "Since you're so fond of grand theft auto, let's discuss property acquisition. I'll be the racing car. You..." He tossed Finn the terrier token. "...the puppy."

Highgate Cemetery - Present

Footsteps crunched through crusted snow. Lucian didn't turn. "Leave the flowers there, Miss Bennett."

"Actually..." Finn's voice cracked through numb lips.

Lucian spun. The boy stood drenched and shaking, Pembroke's greatcoat swallowing his frame. Behind him, the Bentley idled with doors agape, the groundsman wringing his cap.

"You...you left your phone..." Finn thrust the dead device forward, gardenia petals clinging to his sleeves. "Pembroke said...said after the hospital..."

Understanding dawned. Lucian's bark of laughter startled rooks from the yews. "You thought I'd—" He gestured at the wheelchair. "Rather challenging without a cliff."

Color flooded Finn's face. "They said you asked about flowers that don't exist! That you...you kept touching the..." His throat worked. "I thought..."

Lucian studied the boy - this furious, terrified creature who'd braved December storms for a man he professed to hate. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his gloves.

"Come here."

Finn stumbled into the offered hand, his cold fingers tangling with Lucian's. The earl pressed their joined palms to Malcolm's stone. "Solid. Real. As opposed to whatever Gothic nonsense you're imagining."

"But you—"

"Grieve? Yes. Yearn?" Lucian's thumb brushed Finn's knuckles. "The living require more attention." He nodded to the waiting car. "Home. Before Pembroke expires from melodrama."

Mayfair House - 19:30 PM

Firelight danced across the billiards room as Lucian adjusted Finn's bridge hand. "Your brother cheated at snooker. Stole my Wimbledon tickets as collateral."

The teen's snort misted the baize. "Sounds like him." He hesitated. "Did you...you know..."

"Love him?" Lucian chalked his cue. "We were children playing at marriage. The real—" The cue struck with satisfying crack. "—work begins now."

Finn studied the carom, the way the ivory balls kissed and parted. "Your rehab sessions. I'll...I could..."

"Supervise? How novel." Lucian's smile held autumn light - warm but fading. "Tuesdays and Thursdays. Bring your A-level textbooks. I quiz during leg lifts."

As Pembroke entered with cocoa, he found them bent over the table, Lucian's wheelchair parked at an angle that almost resembled standing. Outside, snow continued its silent alchemy, transforming graves into blank slates, futures into something malleable