Cold had settled into the east cabinet overnight.
When Wren turned the second key at six-ten in the morning, the metal resisted her fingers and released with a click loud enough to make the empty kitchen feel watchful. Maren was in the ovens alcove. Soren had not arrived yet. The final pages of the Blackpine packet waited exactly where Wren had left them, sealed behind dry-goods records and a lock no one had considered important in years.
Caelum stood three feet behind her.
He had entered through the service door without coffee, council papers, or an invented supply question. Wren had sent Henrique a message before dawn: Kitchen. Six-ten. No explanation.
Caelum had come anyway.
She removed the packet and carried it to the narrow counter beneath the east window. Morning had not fully r
