Dinner at the Prescott house had always felt like walking into a quiet battlefield.

I had never noticed it before when I was myself. Now sitting in Elena’s body at that long polished table, I could feel it in every breath. The tension did not shout. It whispered. It pressed into the walls. It hid in the way doors closed too softly and forks touched plates too carefully.

Harry sat at the head of the table as always. Straight-backed. Tired eyes. Trying to look like a man who still believed in ...