The winter light had gone pale — that washed-out shade between white and gray that belonged only to December. The city lay under a thin sheath of frost, its breath shallow, as though waiting for something to happen.
And something was happening. Quietly. Methodically. Like the tightening of invisible threads.
--
Serena
Charlton had not returned the night before.
Serena woke to the sound of the clock striking eight and the sight of his coat missing from the stand. His place at the breakfast table sat untouched. The chill inside the Nest felt heavier than the cold outside.
The newspapers were already stacked on the table when she came down. She flipped one open, half expecting — half dreading — what she might see.
"Whispers of the Cross Lineage Return," the headline read, inked in tight, deliberate print.
Her stomach dropped. Beneath it was a sketch — vague, grainy, but enough to make the implication clear. Christopher Cross sighted near Brenford House.
