The cold wind swept through the sprawling gardens of the Hawthorne estate, carrying with it the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine. Glosh wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though it offered little protection against the sharp chill of the evening. The moonlight painted silver streaks across the marble pathways, illuminating the footprints she left behind as she paced toward the small fountain at the garden’s center. Tonight, the estate felt emptier than usual—as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.
Her thoughts were tangled, spiraling faster than she could contain. Ever since the incident with the mysterious letter last week, she hadn’t been able to think clearly. The handwriting had been familiar, yet not familiar—a cruel ec
