The sounds of yelling in the mornings had become all too commonplace since Percy had come home. Her lady's maid was only just finished lacing in her corset when the distinct sound of the word liar reached her ears. With a gentle sigh, she waved the young woman off. "I'll be back shortly," Hope assured, pulling her dressing gown from a nearby hook and sweeping it over her under-dressed frame.

She had known, hadn't she? Her eldest son had gone through much. Too much. They'd sent him off to one of the workhouses! Her son! Percival Weston! In a workhouse! It had been a stroke of pure luck, Guinevere finding him. She would always and forever be in her sister-in-law's debt for that. Sweeping down the hall, it took only a couple of moments for Hope to enter Percy's bedroom, gazing about at the room. A flung shoe here, a red-faced boy there, and a flustered nanny at the center of it all. Hope sighed. "There'll be tea for you in the kitchen," she offered to the nanny, who hurriedly thanked her and scurried from the room, closing the door behind her.

"Percy." Hope sank to one of the chairs, folding her ankles together. "What seems to be the problem this morning?"

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