LYRA

The scream tore through the mansion like a blade. Blade and I exchanged a glance before rushing toward the room. Mildered’s door stood ajar, flickering light spilling into the hallway. As we stepped inside, the air reeked of decay and damp roses. Mildered lay on the grand four-poster bed, her lips pale, breath shallow.

“She said she’s dying,” Margaret whispered, her voice trembling.

It had been Margaret’s scream that pierced the silence, not Mildered’s. She shook, ...