By Lily's eighth year, the manor no longer felt unfamiliar.
Its marble halls, dragon-carved pillars, and tall windows had become part of the rhythm of her life. She knew the soft creak of the library doors, the scent of bread drifting from the kitchen every morning, and the exact hour the sunlight would spill across the herb garden.
The garden had become her favorite place.
It reminded her of Lucy.
Every morning after breakfast, Lily would wander among the rows of lavender, mint, rosemary, thyme, and moonbloom flowers, her fingers brushing the leaves the same way her mother once had in their mountain cottage.
She had even begun planting her own little patch.
"These are Mama's favorites," she whispered one morning, carefully patting fresh soil around a small rosemary sprout.
Amaria, standing beside her with a woven basket of herbs, smiled.
"You have her hands," she said softly.
Lily looked up.
"What do you mean?"
