Inside, it was hardly warmer—or lighter. In the flickering orb of candlelight, Wren could make out the enormity of the hall, its startling emptiness. From where she stood, the ceiling towered three stories above her. If she craned her neck, the moon, as narrow and hooked as a suture needle, peered in through three bar-shaped windows lining the back wall. The grand staircase snaked its way along the somber blue walls, girded with a polished wood banister the color of wet soil. Everything outside the candelabra’s unsteady reach swam indistinctly, as if the house itself breathed and stirred the shadows like wind over still water.

It was nothing like she imagined, so echoing and lonely. Where were the grand parties and gossiping courtiers? Where were the armies of servants carrying platters of cakes and pots of tea? There was no beauty here, no life.

Straight ahead, a fireplace burned red with low-banked coals. To the east, the mouth of a corridor was covered with a massive threadbare tapestry. The draft emanating from it was bitter cold, carrying with it drifts of snow that stole into the main hall like smoke. No wonder everyone here fell ill. The wisp of her breath curled in front of her nose.

“Follow me,” the woman said. “I’ll take you to him.”

She led Wren up the staircase and veered into a hallway on the first floor. As they walked, candlelight traced the ragged edges of peeling floral wallpaper and rows of framed portraits. In the shifting light, the painted subjects’ grins twisted into sneers and watchful eyes faded until they looked like the sunken orbital cavities of a skull. Shuddering, she focused her attention on her companion. The woman’s unbound brown hair fell in loose, shining waves and was offset by the simple frock dress she wore. Firelight bathed her russet-brown skin in a glow like dawn. She seemed far too young to be the head of the household, but then again, Lowry had said most of his staff had perished from fever.

“I’m Wren Southerland, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hannah,” was her only response. They stopped in front of a door. “Lord Lowry will receive you here. When you’re finished, your room is upstairs. The last door on the right.”

“And the sickroom?”

“Directly across from yours.”

“Thank you. I—”

Hannah was already slipping away and rounding the corner. Her absence plunged Wren into near darkness, the corridor lit only by the frame of light around the door. Another time, Hannah’s rudeness might have bothered her, but Wren couldn’t feel much beyond her jittery nerves.