>>Enya
The morning had been hollow without him.
I'd woken up too early, listening to the stir of boots against the marble floor outside our wing, and when I peered out through the curtains, I caught a glimpse of Emrys—dark cloak, silver-fastened gloves, and Ahin beside him, already dressed and ready.
He didn't look back.
I pressed my palm against the cold glass.
By the time the sun began its climb, they were already gone.
Now, it was noon, and the garden stretched in painful quiet around me. The warmth enchantments still kept the winter away in this small pocket of the mansion's grounds. Snow hadn't dared settle here, but the rest of the world was blanketed white—poisoned, slowly suffocating under the creeping veil of miasma.
And they had gone into it.
I sat on the stone bench beneath the tree, my arms wrapped around myself though it wasn't cold. The warmth in the air did nothing to thaw the coil of dread tightening in my chest.
Einar was painting again, of course.
