Dahlia

Alaric’s eyes meet mine, and I know he is counting the same steps. The east hall. The never-open window. The mirror. The pantry. The footprints that are mine and not mine. He is building a clock in his head to measure a danger that refuses to take a shape.

“We are not chasing her today,” he says, and part of me wants to bite him for it. The rest of me trusts him enough not to. “We are closing doors. We are sealing the easy ...