I found it on my way out for the morning, tucked against the base of my door where anyone passing might have stepped over it without a second glance, and I understood, the moment I registered what it actually was, that this hadn't been left carelessly. The guard stationed nearby hadn't noticed it either, he admitted later, embarrassed, which told me whoever had left it understood the household's rhythms well enough to slip past a watchful presence entirely.A single sprig of rosemary, blackened and withered, tied with a scrap of dark thread, resting on top of a small folded square of paper.I picked it up carefully, my pulse already climbing, and unfolded the paper to find no signature, no elaborate message, only a handful of words written in a hand I didn't recognize, deliberately blocky and plain, giving nothing away about who'd written them.You don't belong here. Leave before something worse than a dead flower reminds you of that.I stood in the hallway a long moment, the withered
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