Dawn smelled like steam and iron. Canaan sat on the low bench beneath the western sash and stirred. The oatmeal in the cracked terracotta bowl was thick enough to hold the spoon upright. He watched the surface catch the first thin light and thought of nothing grand—only the rhythm of the spoon, the small scrape of ceramic on wood. A line of steam curled up, and with it came the faint aether-tinge that lived in the greenhouse: lime and salt, and the ghost of something sweeter, like bruised leaf. "If it's cold, add thyme," he told himself, as he always did. He didn't say it to anyone. Habit made it a sentence he could trust. Habit kept the world steady. He pinched a sprig of pale-veined thyme from the saucer beside him and tucked it under the rim of the bowl. The herb didn't belong in porridge by the household's rules—Evelynn would have raised an eyebrow—but thyme kept the chill from settling. It made even the cheapest oats taste as if someone had cleaned the morning out of them. He breathed in the scent and for a breath or two allowed his shoulders to relax. The bowl trembled in his hand. He set it down and watched the steam scatter. Then he stood and pulled the mask from the peg by the door. It was soft leather, darkened where his fingers had worn it, lined with a scrap of an old