No one at the table spoke loudly. No one wanted their voice to be the one that stood out. Patience stalked around the gathering, her cane clicking on the stone floor with every step. Her face could have been made of stone. The cold expression stayed fixed, unemotional, save for her eyes, which moved in short little jolts, flicking from bowed head to bowed head. A milky white sheen covered the irises, like blind eyes, except nothing escaped her notice. Leanne hated those eyes.

“She’s old,” Leanne whispered back. “Maybe she’ll die soon.”

The eyes swivelled towards her. The pupils stared through the sheen. A chill coursed through Leanne. She bowed her head, trying to escape those horrible eyes, her throat tight and her stomach squirming. Patience couldn’t have heard. She’d been careful to keep her voice soft. And yet, the clicking noise was moving closer, louder, and she could still feel the eyes on her, unblinking…

A touch of ice ran across Leanne’s shoulder. Cold, ephemeral, the sensation was both there and not. A dead finger, tracing her skin. She staggered out of the seat, knocking it over. The torch light shook as it raced across the walls and floor. She was alone.

Leanne reached her spare hand up to touch her shoulder. It was wet. She held the fingers ahead of herself, rubbing the liquid between them, then turned the torch upwards. A dark stain, wider than Leanne’s arm reach, marred the ceiling. The roof had a leak.

She breathed deeply as she backed away from the table. Her breath misted. She wished she’d brought a heavier jacket.

I miss you, Leanne.

There was a purpose for her visit. She wasn’t there just to call up old memories. Leanne brushed her hand across her cheek, wiping off a smear of perspiration that had formed despite the cold, and turned towards a door behind her.

In the kitchen beyond it, the old pots still sat on the stoves. Leanne looked into one. The skeletal remains of a mouse were nestled among the dust. The space was too cluttered for her light to do more than confuse it with running shadows, but Leanne knew the kitchens well. Bellamy had survived on donations from the public, and there was barely enough money for food, let alone staff. It was run entirely by Patience and Grace. The children were expected to help with chores; the girls did the cooking, and the boys cleaned. Leanne hadn’t liked those hours. She could sneak little scraps of food—the ends of carrots or sometimes even a sliver of cheese—but being in the kitchen separated her from Henry.