Mirabelle closed the door behind her, leaned back against it, and let out a long breath.
The familiar scent of her room immediately filled her lungs.
Somehow, it felt like home.
Lavender from freshly washed linens.
Wood sealed with almond oil.
The cool mineral smell of stone.
Damp earth from the potted plants near the windows.
Her body recognized the room before her mind did.
Safe.
Her gaze drifted across the pale furniture before settling on the fireplace.
No fire burned there.
For some reason, she suddenly found herself missing the crackling sound.
There had always been something comforting about it. Something that made problems feel smaller.
Or at least farther away.
So she decided to light one.
Someone had already prepared the fireplace for her. Logs were neatly stacked.
Above the mantel stood a glass candle holder. Its flame flickered cheerfully in the growing dusk.
Beside it rested several slender wooden tapers.
