The morning did not arrive so much as assemble itself—steam over kettle carts, church bells that apologized for being late to ordinary life, paperboys slapping ink into air that had learned to keep accounts. Valehart House, which had slept with one window open in case the night wanted to leave, exhaled furniture back into its rooms. Rugs unrolled like old apologies that would be accepted if they stopped making a habit of themselves.Isolde moved through the foyer with a ledger under one arm and a portrait balanced against her hip. It was the winter-moss woman, her plaque gone. The wall made a small, relieved sound when the picture came down; walls do not enjoy being accessories to euphemism.Evelyn watched from the stair, hair braided firm, the red scarf from Maera knotted in a looser confidence than yesterday. “Her true name?” she asked.
最終更新日 : 2025-10-25 続きを読む