The seventh year brought a change to the air in Foxworth Hall. It was no longer just the scent of wax and old secrets; there was a tension that hummed like a live wire behind the wallpaper. Corrine was no longer a toddler easily distracted by clockwork birds. She had become a silent observer, her movements fluid and ghostly, her blue eyes holding a depth that even Malcolm found difficult to navigate.
The rusted key she had found became her silent companion. She kept it tucked inside the hem of her dress, a cold weight against her thigh that reminded her she possessed something that did not belong to her father’s design.
"She is asking about the sun again," Olivia remarked one evening as she and Malcolm stood in the hallway outside the attic door. Olivia looked older, the gray in her hair now a stark, metallic silver. The burden of being the warden had etched deep lines into her face, turning her into a living gargoyle of the estate.
"The sun is a hazard," Malcolm replied, his voice clipped. "It fades things. It ruins the complexion. I have told her this a thousand times."
"You can tell a bird the sky is made of iron, Malcolm, but it will still try to fly," Olivia said, her voice devoid of emotion. "She found a sketchbook Alicia had hidden. She has been drawing the garden—not the garden as it is, but a garden of fire and gold. She is imagining a world you haven't authorized."
Malcolm pushed past her and entered the suite. He found Corrine sitting on the floor in the center of the schoolroom. Spread around her were pages of parchment covered in jagged, vibrant strokes of yellow and orange. It was a...