had not yet broken. The candle she carried burned low, its wax dribbling down her wrist like white blood

ors, silk whispering against skin, muffled gasps folded into pillows. The scent of pleasure still clun

g open, careless, the shadows of her collarbones sharp enough to slice moonlight. Her curls were a storm

re to meet with sharper hunger. No lips to read

. That voice sh

her knees. The rug was thick, but she knew the edge of the floorboard by touch now.

ittle sigh, as though the floor it

t its lock was newer, glinting gold in the dark. She reached for the key she alway

as delicate

it, the perfum

sn't

ilder. Damp moss. Ashes. A bloom crushed underfoot before it had time to open. Her mother's scent. Not from

yes b

hest held onl

tters, tied wi

pouch, which sh

dark and cold to the touch, hummi

up the le

se had been read before. By someone. M

ink that bled at the edges, soft a

ugh

was old, but not crumbling. Her mother's handwriting danced a

he sea has risen. The blood has begun to sing again.

d. Her throat

cut through the nigh

eep in the city. But her skin still prickle

ept r

gatekeeper. The world outside is not ready for you, my darling. And still-you must go. When the time co

de her said she shouldn't-not all at once. Her mother had scattered trut

side with care, each

curled around t

oon etched in silver. Another, a wolf's head, mouth open in eternal snarl. The third was plain-save for a si

ved box

r a moment, then opened with a soft groan, like

black velvet, was

ht through storm clouds. She didn't need to unstopper it to kn

d for it..

robbed in her belly. The same ache that ha

ered something

ed the b

en-the

soft

ocked at

t to. She rose slowly, like something bein

it, the hallway

e hung in the air. And a singl

as black w

up, and didn't flinch wh

bloomed crimson

iled f

icked

e breath in the dark. And from somewhere just outside the wi

we

gri

did not pretend she had