Volume One · Chapter Fourteen · Tooth and Coin

Evelyn returned to the manor near dusk. She didn't take the front entrance—the side door. The lock hung as she'd left it, the catch she'd modified still in place. It made no sound as she pushed through.

She moved faster through the corridor than usual. New candles in their holders—flames steadier, light falling across her hand. A trace of dried ash on her skin, dust from the hounds, pale gray in the candlelight. She didn't brush it off. She entered her room, closed the door, leaned against it for a moment, then walked to the windowsill.

The two stones were still there. She touched one, then pulled the canine tooth from her pocket and set it beside them. Stones gray-white, tooth dark brown—they didn't match, side by side, but she left them in the same row, didn't adjust them.

She looked at the three things for a long time. Then she walked to the mirror, tilted her head, looked at the old bite mark on her neck. Dim light. The mark's color was close to her skin tone now, but the outline remained—same as when she'd first noticed it, years ago. She pressed her fingers over it. No sensation. It had long since stopped feeling like hers.

"Used to go near the border," she said to herself—quiet, like confirming a fact she wasn't sure about. She glanced at the mark again, lowered her hand, walked back to the sill, picked up the tooth, closed her palm around it. Its edges were blunt, surface rough. No warmth could seep into it—it was cold, inside and out. But she held it, didn't let go.

Footsteps in the corridor. Lighter than the servants'. Slower. It stopped outside her door. Evelyn didn't move. Her hand was still around the tooth, but she eased her grip, let it rest quietly in her palm. The footsteps paused one beat. Then continued—fading slowly, like someone trying to decide if she was really inside.

She didn't go to the door. She stood at the sill, placed the tooth on her pillow, turned the pillow over to cover it. Changed into a clean coat. Brushed the dust off the old one, folded it, set it over the chair back. Then she sat down, no lamp lit, in the dark, gaze fixed on the two stones on the windowsill.

When those hounds charged today, her blade had entered too high. Lane was right. She'd known even before he said it—the blade had caught tendon and pulled back. That was the feedback of a missed cut. A half-inch lower, and that hound would've dropped without the chance to roll back up. But she hadn't adjusted. In that split second after the strike, something else had crossed her mind—too fast for her to catch its shape.

She thought Lane had noticed. He'd heard the sound. She wasn't sure if he'd heard something else in that recoil.

She stood, walked to the bookshelf, pulled out the blank black-spined book, opened the cover, looked at the folded paper inside. No new words.

She closed the book, returned it, then lifted the pillow and glanced at the tooth. Darker in the shadows than in light, its outline leaving a faint impression on the cotton—a small piece of evidence held in time.

She picked it up, set it back on the windowsill beside the two stones. Not in the same row this time—she turned it sideways, pressed it against the edge of the second stone, like it was leaning against a tiny wall. She looked at the arrangement, then left the room, walked the corridor to the dining hall. Aldwin wasn't there.

She sat at the table. No food before her, no water. Just sat. Outside, light was fading. A cold gray rectangle slanted through the skylight, across the floor, like a door left ajar. She ran her fingers along the table's edge, stopped at the corner. Aldwin's usual seat. The wood on his side was smoother than the rest—worn by repeated tapping. Middle finger and ring finger, pressing alternately, like a small, unceasing metronome.

She withdrew her hand, stood, left through the side door, crossed the night air, returned to her room. The tooth was still on the sill, leaning against the stone. She didn't move it, didn't look at it again. She sat on the bed's edge, back to the wall, closed her eyes. Wind seeped through the window gap, carrying a dry smell, like dust lifted from somewhere above ground.

Eyes closed. She thought about something Lane had said—"an old friend." The way his voice had dropped when he said it. Lower than any other time. Like the words had been pulled up from somewhere deeper, slowly, like something that had already sunk to the bottom and he'd lifted it back up himself. There was something in his voice.

She opened her eyes, reached into her hidden pocket, and found the coin. The one she hadn't given him—meant to leave on the counter, but hadn't. She turned it between her fingers. Then she put it back, stood, pushed the door open, crossed the corridor, left through the side door, walked through the night back toward the station.

She stopped outside the iron gate, looked at the lock. It was closed. He hadn't waited for her to come back. She crouched, slipped the coin through the gap in the gate, pushed it onto the ground at the top of the stairs.

Then she stood and walked away.

Lane found it the next morning. He woke, walked to the arch, glanced up at the stairs. Sunlight hadn't reached them yet—the steps were a dark blue-gray in the dim. He was about to check the vent when he saw something new on the ground. A small silver glint. He crouched, picked it up. The edge was warm. Held all the way here. He turned it over, looked at it, then put it in his pocket. Sat against the ticket counter for a while, nothing in his hands, not thinking of anything in particular. Just sat. Put it away.