The next day was grey and oppressive.

Rain lashed against the windows in long, bony fingers.

The house creaked resentfully, the stone walls complaining as if the house itself were aware that something was coming.

Leya sat on her window seat, knees drawn up to her chest, eyes empty as she looked out as the mist crept over the lawn, There'd been a piece of paper on the floor when she woke that morning.

Thick cardstock.

Gold edging.

No name—because it hadn't been needed.

You ...