The morning fog lay low over the coastal city of Marrowell, blurring the line between sea and street until everything seemed suspended in a pale breath. Eleanor Hart stood at the edge of the harbor, her gloved hands resting on the cold iron rail as gulls cried overhead. Ships shifted against their moorings with soft groans, and the scent of salt and tar filled the air. She had arrived before dawn, traveling through the night by carriage, her body stiff with fatigue and her mind restless with questions she had carried for twelve years. The city had changed in ways both subtle and stark, yet it still carried the same…

The winter of 1863 settled over the river town of Alderreach with a patience that felt deliberate, as if the land itself were waiting for something to admit what it had lost. Snow lay thick along the stone embankments, muting the sound of the water and pressing the air into a hush that seemed to follow Clara Winfield wherever she walked. She had returned after nine years away, her boots sinking into the same streets she once believed she would never see again. The houses leaned toward one another like old witnesses, their windows fogged with breath and memory. The church bell rang the hour, its sound rolling across the…

The valley of Hawthorne lay open beneath a pale morning sky, its fields brushed with frost and its hedgerows standing in careful lines as if drawn by a steady hand. A narrow road curved through the land toward a manor house set back among ancient oaks. Smoke rose from its chimneys in thin strands, promising warmth that contrasted with the cold still clinging to the earth. Anne Fairfax stood at the front window of the manor, her hands folded tightly before her. She watched a carriage approach from the far bend in the road, its dark shape growing larger with each slow turn of the wheels. The sight stirred a…

The bells of Ashcombe rang with a tired patience, their sound rolling across tiled roofs and narrow lanes as dawn lifted itself slowly from the river valley. Smoke drifted upward from chimneys, thin and gray against a pale sky. At the far end of the square stood the old clockmaker shop, its wooden sign faded, its windows glowing faintly with lamplight that had never been extinguished through the night. Clara Winford stood inside that light, her fingers smudged with oil, her shoulders stiff from hours bent over brass and gears. The clock on the central table lay open before her, its heart exposed, springs and wheels waiting for her decision.…

Morning mist clung to the gravel drive of Linden Court like a held breath. The old estate rose from the fog with restrained dignity, its stone walls weathered to the color of memory. Ivy traced the edges of tall windows, and the copper roof caught faint light from a sun still unsure of itself. In the quiet courtyard, the sound of footsteps echoed too clearly, as if the house itself were listening. Eleanor Whitcombe paused at the iron gate and rested her hand against its cold surface. She had crossed half the country to return here, yet the final step inside felt heavier than the journey itself. Her black gloves…