The morning sun poured through the high windows of the grand staircase, casting long, bright rectangles of light onto the polished wood. Dust motes danced in the beams, cheerful and golden. It was a beautiful morning.
Ines hated it.
She walked down the stairs, her hand trailing lightly on the banister. Her steps were slow, heavy, lacking their usual morning bounce. She was wearing a dress of pale yellow, a color Edith had insisted would "brighten her spirits," but Ines felt as though she were wearing a costume. Inside, she felt gray.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the dining room. The double doors were open. The smell of fresh coffee, toasted bread, and savory kippers drifted out, usually a comforting scent. Today, it made her stomach turn.
She walked in.
The long table stretched out before her. At the head, her brother, Rowan, sat behind a wall of the morning newspaper, a cup of tea steaming at his elbow.
To his right, there was a chair.
It was empty.
