Flynn waved a hand in the direction of the church, its spire just visible above the shadowed roofs in the moonlight. “You were meant to create, Mr. Beaumont. Inspire. You see beyond the surface.” He didn’t know what was making him say these things. Maybe it was guilt over his initial conduct. Maybe because he saw part of himself in Beaumont. Maybe it was because he understood that Charlie Beaumont was not an adversary but an ally. A true friend who listened without judgment and whose actions were driven only by kindness. He didn’t have pieces of the Sistine Chapel to gift this boy with, but perhaps he could offer words. “Regardless of what you might have overheard me say, you have a gift. You should be proud of what you’ve already accomplished.”

Beaumont had gone utterly silent and utterly still. As the seconds ticked by, Flynn shifted uncomfortably in the cold, feeling foolish. This is what he got for letting his guard down and spouting…feelings. No doubt Beaumont was—

“Thank you.” It was a strained whisper that hung in icy crystals before dissipating. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before.”

Flynn frowned. Beaumont sounded…off. Like he was going to weep. There was something not quite right about—

He froze, his skin prickling with an awareness that hadn’t ever failed him. An awareness that had allowed him to survive for those years when so many others hadn’t.

“Step towards me, Beaumont,” he commanded.

The boy obeyed either his tone or because he had sensed the same.

From out of the shadows, a figure emerged. Then another.

“Look what we have here.” The man who spoke first was barrel-chested, the buttons of his coat straining over the front of his torso. He had a hat pulled down over his ears so it was difficult to see his expression, but it was not difficult to interpret his intentions.

The second man stepped into the narrow lane. He wasn’t as big, but he had the build of a man who made his living with hard labor. “An aris-to-crat,” he mocked, making it clear exactly what he thought of the upper classes.

Beside him, he saw Beaumont open his mouth.

“That’s right,” Flynn snapped before Beaumont could say anything. “And I’d trouble you to leave myself and my servant alone.” If these two blackguards believed the boy was a mere servant, they’d likely leave him be. His rumpled appearance helped, as did the pallor of Beaumont’s face above his scarf and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. A surge of protectiveness hit Flynn with the force of a runaway carriage.

“That’s a fine coat you’re wearing, mate,” the smaller of the two men said to Flynn. “And fine boots. Expensive.”