The morning started wrong. James knew it before his eyes were fully open. The air was too sharp, too brittle, like glass that might shatter if he moved the wrong way. He sat up in the bed at the estate, the window grey with early light, and his chest felt heavy, like someone had pressed a hand down and left it there through the night.
Penelope was still asleep beside him. Not close—there was space between them—but her breathing was steady, turned toward the wall. He watched her shoulder rise and fall, and he thought, I should wake her, tell her we’re leaving, tell her today’s not right. But he didn’t. Cowardice or love, he couldn’t tell which.
He dragged himself out of bed, feet on the cold wood floor. The house creaked, old beams settling. Or maybe not. Maybe someone is already in the w
