The rain had not stopped all day. It whispered against the mullioned windows of the restoration suite, a steady, insistent rhythm that seemed to seep into Elara’s bones. Beyond the glass, the forest surrounding Thorne Manor was a blurred mass of dark trunks and shifting leaves, swaying under the weight of the storm. The manor’s ancient walls kept the damp out, but could not dispel the creeping sensation that the weather was somehow watching her — that the rain was less a cleansing force and more a curtain, shutting her in.
The Weeping Muse stared back from the easel, shrouded in half-peeled varnish, her sorrowful eyes catching the light in ways Elara still didn’t fully understand. Today’s task was simple in theory: clean the background vines to the left of the Muse’s shoulder. But her bru
