The first sign something weird was happening was the smell. It wasn't like smoky meat or disgusting rot. Instead, it was faintly fragrant--dry and warm, like something old and ceremonial.
Marron paused mid-slice.
Henri was at the stove, adjusting the flame under a shallow pan of oil. Ciel was shouting at someone in the dining room about table placement. The usual rhythm of service filled the inn.
But beneath it—
Myrrh.
Marron lifted her head slightly.
"Do you smell that?" she asked.
Henri sniffed once, distracted. "Mm. Is it burnt toast?"
"No."
She wiped her hands and stepped toward the back door of the kitchen. The scent was stronger there, drifting in from outside, carried on a breeze that felt warmer than it should have been for the season.
It wasn't unpleasant, but it was a strange smell all the same.
Something was deliberately announcing its presence.
Behind her, Ciel's voice cut through the noise.
"If something's on fire, I'm blaming you."
