“Open the door,” the servant gasps as Declan steps into the courtyard holding Arabella’s trembling hand. “Now,” he adds. The word is a flat command that cuts the yard quiet. Emmeline waddles forward, snowflakes clinging to her fur. She stops three paces from them, head tilted, eyes wide with the wrong kind of hope. “Emmy?” Hera calls, rushing out with the notebook pressed to her chest. “You startled me—” “Who is sick?” Emmeline says, voice small and urgent. “Arabella? Arabella cold—bring blanket—bring tea—” A soldier plants himself between Emmeline and Declan. His palm is a wall. He smells of iron and leather. “Declan,” Emmeline says, “what—why—” Declan lets Arabella lean on him. He looks past Emmeline, eyes empty of warmth. “Arabella is unwell,” he says. “Come inside. Warmth first.” “No,” Hera says. “She must not—” “You will step back, Hera,” Declan says. His voice does not tremble. “You and the beast will step back.” Emmeline blinks. “Beast?” She lifts a paw, as if to touch Arabella’s sleeve. “Arabella—” Arabella’s fingers find Declan’s wrist and squeeze. She is wrapped in furs, skin paling. She looks at Emmeline and attempts a smile that breaks like thin ice. “Bring blankets,” she whispers. “Please.” A hush falls. The servants shuffle. Someone mutters, but the words die on their lips. Hera moves to Emmeline’s side and lays a hand on her back. “Stay calm, Emmy,” Hera says. “We’ll go inside. I’ll fetch—” Aurelius’s voice