Wyfn-Garde did not wake so much as exhale.
The fog rolled down from Wyfwood in slow, pearl-colored breaths, curling around the chimneys of the castle, pooling in the lanes below, softening the edges of the old stone bridges until the whole world looked like a painting someone had been too gentle to finish. By the time Salviana opened her eyes, the east wing, where their chambers lay, was wrapped in a hush so complete she could hear the candles burning down.
She lay still, watching the ceiling. Someone had carved it with the moon in every phase, from the thinnest silver thread to the full, round coin, as though the builder had wanted to count the nights. She waited for the dread.
It did not come.
