The renovations had reached the heart of the manor—the Great Solar. For decades, this room had been a place of ice and iron, where Silas had held his most private and most cruel audiences. But now, the heavy tapestries depicting ancient slaughters had been burned, and the soot-stained stones were being scrubbed clean by hands that no longer shook with fear.
The "Nice Dreams" had become so frequent, so persistent, that the line between waking and dreaming had begun to fray like a well-loved hem. They found themselves finishing each other's sentences with references to things that hadn't happened—yet. They knew the layout of a garden that was still a pile of gravel; they knew the taste of a vintage of wine that hadn't been bottled in this lifetime.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the four
