Prologue
She was sitting in the branches of an oak tree, hidden by leaves, when she saw herself dying.
Below her, through the window of the manor, she watched a woman move slowly across the room.
She wore fine clothes befitting her station, blue silk with gold threads at the cuffs.
Her hair was pale beneath a veil. She moved listlessly, as though each step stole something from her.
One hand trailed along the wall for support.
The woman crossed to the window and sank into the chair beneath it. She turned her face toward the window.
The face that looked toward the gardens was her own.
Not a passing resemblance, but hers—the same eyes, mouth, and jaw. But this version of her had gone quiet in the face. Not grief-stricken, not frightened, just absent, as though whatever had once animated her features had long since vanished. The hands reaching for the embroidery frame trembled.
In the tree, she pressed her palm over her mouth to stop the scream that wanted to erupt.
The woman leaned her head back, her unfocused gaze sweeping past the oak, over the leaves, through the very spot where she sat hidden. The woman saw nothing at all.
This is what I become, she thought.
Then, with a fierceness that surprised even herself:
Not if I can help it.
She didn’t know how she would keep that promise. She knew only that the gaunt woman in the window was running out of time.
And so—somewhere, some when—was she.