(Kaelen)
The note arrives under my door at six in the morning.
Small piece of paper, folded once. No envelope. The handwriting I recognize from the garden — careful, controlled, the hand of someone who writes like they're being watched even when they're not.
South garden. Seven. Come alone.
I turn it over. Nothing on the back.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment. Theron is still asleep — genuinely asleep, the kind he falls into after nights when his wolf has been close to the surface, the deep unconscious kind. His breathing is slow and even and he hasn't moved since sometime around two.
I get dressed quietly and go downstairs.
---
The south garden is the smaller one. Not the rose wall bench — the other side of the grounds, behind the east wing, where someone planted herbs th
