Tonight, the Roselle Mansion breathes differently.
It's not just the lights—though they are softer, warmer, more golden, spilling from every sconce and chandelier like honey left too long in the sun. It's not just the roses—though they are everywhere, cascading down the banisters in creamy white waterfalls. It's not even the candles flickering in their glass holders, their flames steady and patient.
It's the air itself. Something has shifted. Something has softened.
I feel it as Silas and I walk through the hallway together, our hands joined, our fingers laced together so naturally I almost forget to notice it. His palm is warm against mine, his grip light but certain. When I glance down at our hands, I catch the way his fingers curl around mine, as though they've already memorized the shape of them.
Then I glance up at his face.
He's still smiling.
