“Everybody dies chasing time they never had, wondering about a future full of ifs.”

  The curtains had been closed hours ago, yet I was still awake. Sunlight crept through the narrow gaps, too bright for comfort but not enough to force sleep upon me—not this time as it didn’t hit my eyes directly.

  I lay stretched out on the sofa, the book resting on my chest, and smiled faintly at my visitor.

  “You know there’s a perfectly good sofa in the next room?” said Arthur, lord of this mansion.

  His tone was light, and his smile was crooked—too practiced to be genuine. If he was angry about my furniture theft, he hid it well, but still not well enough.

  “Is it as good as this one?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Just leaned against the doorframe and scratched his head like someone with fleas.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “I’m not the type to care about sofas… or how you’ve turned this room upside down.” His gaze swept over the corner piled high with books, then drifted back to me. “Why philosophy?”

  “This book covers a rather interesting topic.” I tapped the cover lightly. “The author went out of his way to study what people think while dying. Apparently, he used necromancy to get firsthand accounts.” I grinned. “Ingenious, if a little sick. But who am I to judge? It’s one of the first books I picked up.”

  I watched him closely, curious if necromancy would provoke a reaction. It was forbidden in this country, after all. But Arthur remained calm, unreadable.

  “Being obsessed with death while still living,” he said, “usually isn’t a good sign.”

  I considered that. He wasn’t wrong. But death had always been with me—constant, inevitable. Like my left hand. Familiar, even comforting.

  “Healthy or not,” I said at last, “it’s an interesting read.”

  Arthur didn’t press the point. But the scolding edge in his voice lingered, just enough to irritate me.

  “I’m only concerned about your well-being,” he said. Then his expression shifted—subtle, but deliberate. “On a related note, the maid you met last night has been sentenced to death.”

  I blinked. Not in shock, but in mild confusion.

  Why tell me that now? Did he want sympathy? Guilt? A show of morality?

  “When? Where?” I asked, suppressing a yawn. The timing felt suspiciously deliberate.

  “Tonight. As soon as the sun sets. She’ll hang in the garden.”

  With that, he turned and left, leaving me with a pile of books and a knot of half-formed questions.

  What did he expect me to do—intervene? Was this a test? A demonstration? A warning?

  What had she even done? Entered his room? Disobeyed an order? Or was this just a performance, carefully staged to remind me how easily he could snuff out lives?

  I chuckled lightly and picked up my fascinating, if disturbing, book once more. Hours passed before I received another visitor—not Markus, as I had expected, stomping in and starting a fight—but a woman nearly as old as Arthur. Early thirties, perhaps.

  She wore fine clothing that clung too loosely to her bony frame, and her blue eyes showed no fear as they met mine. There was a glint of curiosity there, something I could only interpret as excitement. Like me, she wore disgustingly white clothes, and she moved with a slow, deliberate grace as she strolled into the room and sat down on the only section of the sofa not occupied by me. My feet hovered just centimetres away from her skirt as she picked up a book I’d already skimmed and opened it, pretending to read.

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  I kept reading too—at least for the first few minutes. But I noticed the way she glanced at me, often and with increasing boldness. Still, she waited a full hour before speaking.

  “I must admit,” she said finally, closing the book gently on her lap, “that a sofa in this room is a brilliant idea.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, setting my book aside again with a sigh. “An hour of pretending to read, just for that icebreaker?”

  “How did you know?” she asked, half laughing. “You were reading the whole time. I thought I was being subtle… Was it the way I turned the pages?”

  I gave a low whistle of approval. “Too irregular. If you were actually reading, you’d have found a rhythm.”

  She looked genuinely impressed. “I apologize for deceiving you, then. My name is Mary White. A pleasure.”

  “Lucinda,” I replied, though she already knew that. “You’re the lady of the house. I doubt my name escaped you.”

  “On the contrary,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “I’m rather ostracised in this mansion. The maids only speak to me when absolutely necessary.”

  I stared into her eyes, looking for cracks in her story. Either she was an exceptional liar—or a fool for being so open about her position. I wasn’t sure yet. Still, I reached for a second book I’d skimmed earlier, opened it to page four, and turned it so she could see clearly.

  It was a family tree.

  Hers, to be specific.

  “How does it feel to marry so someone else can get a title?” I asked softly. “To surrender control over the wealth and influence your ancestors spent centuries building?”

  She stiffened, but only for a fraction of a second. Her eyes widened just slightly, and her pulse—barely visible at her throat—quickened.

  Bingo.

  She was good. But not good enough.

  “Living in a cage is never a great experience—whether you’re a canary or a pigeon.”

  Her words struck a nerve I hadn’t known was there.

  They pulled memories from where I kept them buried—of dying underwater, over and over again, like drowning was the only thing I knew.

  “And yet,” I said, eyes narrowing slightly, “the canary is praised for its beauty… while the pigeon’s lucky if it doesn’t starve.”

  I let the truth of that hang in the air between us. She spoke of captivity, but hers was gilded. Mine was rusted iron and salt.

  “At least the pigeon can die,” Mary replied, chuckling softly. “The canary is force-fed, cursed to stay grounded—never flying, just singing for someone else’s pleasure.”

  There was weight behind her voice—resignation, but not defeat. And, oddly, a shred of envy.

  I tilted my head. “So? Are you the pigeon or canary?”

  She didn’t hesitate.

  “A canary… that still wishes to fly.” She met my eyes. “Will you help the poor canary?”

  A question meant to move me. And yet—I had no reason to help her.

  No real benefit, no safety in it. The army offered more, even with its chaos. But something… something unfamiliar scratched at the back of my thoughts.

  Curiosity, maybe. Or a desire I didn’t yet understand.

  Still, I couldn’t say yes. Not yet.

  “Arthur believes you’ll serve him forever,” she said quietly. “But I don’t. You and I… we could be canaries. Flying freely.”

  I exhaled through my nose, slow and soft. “A canary freed from its cage just ends up in another,” I said. “It’s foolish to set them free.”

  She didn’t argue. Not really. Her expression held disappointment, but not surprise. She’d hoped, not expected.

  And perhaps that made her smarter than I’d given her credit for.

  Without another word, she stood and walked toward the door. Her fingers touched the handle—but just before leaving, she looked over her shoulder.

  “The maid who’s meant to be executed…” Her voice was calm. “It’s a ruse. She’s one of his most loyal servants. He would never kill her.”

  And with that, she slipped out, leaving behind far more than silence—

  She left me with a decision I hadn’t realized I was being asked to make.