Too Late to Say Forgive Me
The melody drifted into the hallway, curling like smoke under doors and around staircases.
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In the great hall, Dylan stood beside Fiona, smiling for a portraitist.
Then he stopped.
Mid-pose.
His head turned slowly.
“What is that?” he asked.
Fiona tilted her head. “What?”
“That song…”
The notes curled down the staircase, threading through his memory.
He staggered a step back, face paling.
“It’s—”
The cliffs. The storm. The blood. That voice.
That song.
He dropped the goblet in his hand.