The kitchen light stuttered and died halfway through the sentence Angela was giving her. Outside, snow had iced the world into a hush—thin, white glass across the lane—so the house's cheap linoleum felt colder than it had any right to. Angela's breath fogged in front of her like a stubborn ghost, and she pressed a folded paper bag into Annika's hands so hard the thin paper creased. "Bring three quail eggs—quick," Angela said, voice sharp as a needle. Her hair was braided down her back in a single, severe rope, the ends threaded with gray. She moved with a certainty that belonged to people who did not ask doctors for permission. "And take the tincture. Don't dawdle." Annika looked at the bag without opening it. She could smell the house: wood smoke in the corners, old vinegar under the sink where nothing edible should have ever been kept, and the faint chemical ghost of antiseptic that used to mean someone cared enough to go to a clinic. That antiseptic smell had left the room ten years ago, like someone had cut the power and forgotten to come back for it. The bag crinkled. Landon's voice came from the bedroom then, not a question but a demand. "Is she going to the shop or is she standing there staring at the damn bag?" Annika slid the bag into her jacket. The paper warmed against her palm. She wanted to ask if Angela had