The sun rose over the Alsace tree line like a cracked egg yolk, spilling a pale, watery light across the frost-covered lawn of the Estate. It was quiet, the kind of heavy, insulated silence that usually precedes a storm, or a funeral.
I stood on the porch, my breath puffing out in white clouds, watching Silas wrestle a wooden crate into the back of the Land Rover. The vehicle, a beast of black steel and mud-splattered tires, looked out of place against the delicate, vine-covered architecture of the house. It looked like a tank parked in a fairy garden.
"Careful with that crate," Silas grunted, shoving it next to a spare tire. "That’s the elderberry wine. And the holy water. Don't mix them up."
"Is there a difference?" Lucian asked, leaning against a pillar.
He was wearing a floor-lengt
