The word spread like wildfire. Derron had barely reached the corridor when the first servant saw his face—pale, urgent, frightened—and asked what was wrong. He did not answer. He did not need to. The news traveled on its own, slipping through the estate like smoke, whispered from servant to servant, from guard to guard, until it reached the ears of Marius. Marius came first, his face grim, his boots loud on the stone. Bayley followed, her hands clasped, her eyes anxious. They stood in the doorway, looking at Nathan's still form, at Lenore kneeling beside the bed, at the open window and the cold room and the too-pale light. Malone came next, breathless, her hair loose, her book forgotten in the study. She pushed past her father, past her mother, and knelt on the other side of the bed. She did not speak. She simply looked at Nathan's face—flushed, feverish, too still—and placed her hand over Lenore's. The healer arrived within the hour. He was an old man, gray-haired, steady-handed,
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