Twenty four
The first thing I notice in the morning is that Bella’s bed is empty.
The second thing is that the sheets are still warm, the shallow dip where she slept only just beginning to rise.
“Bella?” My voice comes out too loud in the hush of the bedroom. I push the duvet back and cross the rug barefoot, heart thudding. “Bella!”
The door to our sitting room stands ajar. Someone has replaced last night’s tray with a fresh one—covered plates, a little pot sending up curls of steam that smell faintly of bergamot. I’m halfway to the hall before I realize my hands are shaking.
The oak door turns easily. The corridor beyond is lit by lamps set at even intervals, their light quiet as breath. Portraits line the walls—stiff-backed ancestors with unfriendly eyes. If I had the presence of mi
