Chapter 1
Thomas Hale believed in three things with religious certainty: good knives, honest butter, and the quiet miracle of a kitchen that behaved itself. The rest of the world, he had learned, was optional.
Their townhouse sat just off a London street that smelled perpetually of rain and history. Ivy climbed the brick like it was trying to reclaim something lost. The house creaked in ways Thomas found reassuring. It meant the place was alive.
Elara liked old things.
She liked them broken, too.
That morning, Thomas cooked mushroom soup while their daughter, Eleanor—Ellie, to everyone who loved her—sat at the table drawing shapes that were not quite animals and not quite crowns. The soup simmered gently, earthy and thick, a comfort against the London fog pressing its face to the windows.
"Daddy," Ellie said, not looking up, "can people wear tails?"
Thomas paused, spoon hovering. "As costumes?"
"No," she said thoughtfully. "Like… normally."
He glanced toward the doorway. Elara stood there, dressed for work, dark coat buttoned high, hair pinned with deliberate care. She smiled as if this were a perfectly ordinary question.
"Well," Thomas said, choosing his words carefully, "fashion is very broad these days."
Ellie nodded, satisfied, and went back to drawing.
Thomas did not see the way Elara's shoulders eased. He did not notice how her fingers curled once, then relaxed.
They had been married six years. Ellie was turning five next month. Life had settled into something gentle and predictable—at least, from Thomas's side of the bed.
He kissed Elara's cheek as she passed him, catching a faint scent he couldn't place. Not perfume. Something colder.
"You're working late?" he asked.
"Likely," she replied. "Restoration doesn't hurry."
He grinned. "Of course it doesn't."
Elara worked as an art restorer for the royal collection. That was the story. She disappeared for days sometimes, came home with bruises she explained away as ladders and clumsiness. Thomas believed her. Love made a person generous.
Later that week, Thomas catered a private event in Hyde Park. A picnic, officially. Company gathering, unofficially.
He grilled sausages and plated salads for people who watched him with amused fondness. They complimented his food with unusual sincerity. One man with pale eyes thanked him twice. A woman with a smile just a bit too wide asked for the soup recipe and never blinked.
Elara moved among them with quiet authority.
Thomas watched her, apron on, spatula in hand, struck—briefly—by how different she looked. Tailored suit. Hair severe. Posture sharp as a blade.
She caught his eye.
He raised his spatula in a small wave.
She crossed the lawn toward him. "Tom. I didn't know you'd be here."
"You booked me," he said cheerfully.
"Oh." She smiled. "Right."
He leaned closer. "What's going on? Everyone looks like they're at a funeral pretending to be a picnic."
She lowered her voice. "Security briefing. Don't worry."
"For a picnic?"
"For the people who matter."
He nodded, immediately reassured. "Ah. Of course."
That night, he dreamed of wolves running through fog, wearing crowns.
When he woke, Elara lay beside him, eyes open, watching the ceiling as if listening to something far away.
"Bad dream?" he murmured.
She turned to him, smiled softly, and pulled him close.
"No," she said. "Just work."