The rain fell like needles.
Thin, cold, relentless. It hammered the cobblestones of the courtyard, turning the gaps between the stones into small rivers of gray water. The sky, heavy and bruised, pressed down on the capital like a lid on a coffin. The clouds were so thick that the afternoon looked like dusk, and the lanterns in the windows of the manor flickered with uncertain light.
Johana stood in the doorway. She was small. Eight years old. Her hair, pink and gray, hung in two braids that her mother had done that morning. The braids were uneven. Her mother had been in a hurry. There had been a job. There was always a job.
