Harrison rested against the courtyard's rim, cigarette burning low in his hand, its ember shining like the final reminder of authority he could hold onto. The cold night wind swirled against Blackwood Mansion's walls and brushed against him, but he did not tremble. He never did.

He rested and glared at the greenhouse.

She was in there.

Leya.

He had witnessed the light move from the soiled glass, observed her slip in like a phantom to its source. What did she read in Samuel's ...