Her Graceful War Song novel Chapter 1236

Carissa left the room first and Cody followed, quietly closing the door behind him.

Inside the small side hall, only Gerald and Malcolm remained. The father and son pair sat in silence for a long while, neither of them speaking. Finally, it was Malcolm who stepped forward, intending to remove the cloth covering Gerald. But the old man held tightly to it with both hands, refusing to let him.

With a heavy heart, Malcolm set the blankets and clothing aside, turning his back. "Please change your clothes. I'll turn around."

The sound of rustling fabric came after a long pause.

A sharp, uncomfortable feeling welled up inside Malcolm. His chest tightened, his throat burned, and his nose became clogged as tears welled up in his eyes. He couldn't tell if it was from frustration, anger, or the weight of everything he couldn't quite accept.

All his life, his father had been a figure of stern authority, someone whose presence commanded respect. His words could shake the literary world, and his cold, unapproachable demeanor was feared by many.

But now, this disgrace.

If word of it got out, it wouldn't just cause a ripple. It would send shockwaves through the entire kingdom.

After a long while, Malcolm's voice broke the silence, "Are you done?"

There was no answer, but there was also no sound of fabric rustling anymore.

Turning slowly, he saw Gerald lying on the makeshift bed of chairs, completely wrapped in the thick quilt, his face and head hidden beneath it. The clothes he had worn earlier were carefully folded, resting neatly on the table beside him.

The neatness of it struck Malcolm deeply.

In the past, there had always been servants to help Gerald change. Yet here, his father had done it himself, managing not only to change but to fold his clothes with such precision and care.

The sight of those colors—the bright, garish hues—burned Malcolm's eyes. The tears he had been holding back finally spilled over.

Lost and completely confused, his voice trembled as he asked, "Why?"

Under the blanket, Gerald's hands were clenched tightly, his nails digging into his palms.

From the moment Malcolm entered the room, he hadn't called Gerald "Dad".

Malcolm was caught off guard, nearly toppling from his chair in shock. He clutched his chest, gasping for breath until the tightness in his chest subsided.

Gerald lay still, speaking in a dull, detached tone, "You think little of me now, don't you? I don't blame you. I can't forgive myself either. But I've never indulged myself in my life. Now, with half a foot in the grave and our family flourishing, I let myself have a few moments of freedom. I don't owe anyone anything."

It was as though he was speaking more to himself than to Malcolm. Perhaps Gerald had always been justifying his actions to himself this way. How else could he bring himself to wear such a disguise and go to a gentlemen's retreat?

Once the shock had passed, Malcolm oddly felt some relief. In this state, plus with the clothes neatly folded on the table, there were few who would recognize his father. Carissa had recognized him, but that was only because of her sharp eyes—and, as Gerald had said, he had personally reprimanded her during New Year's Eve.

"So many things are beyond our control. I don't think I've done anything wrong," Gerald said with his eyes closed, his expression unreadable. "If I am wrong, then it is fate's doing."

"I don't know how to judge right from wrong," Malcolm said, his voice thick with emotion. "I understand your struggles—holding up our family all those years wasn't easy.

"But what I can't understand is... the Quinton family leads the civil ranks now, and our every word and action should reflect that. Well, I don't have the right to criticize you. I've made my own mistakes, but this doesn't feel the same."

Gerald let out a mocking laugh. "You don't understand. Just go back."