She didn't wait to catch her breath. She crossed the open space and pushed against the tall double doors of the manor. They swung inward with a groan.
The moment she stepped inside, the temperature plunged.
The warmth still clinging to her cloak vanished as if it had never existed. The doors thudded shut behind her on their own. Torchlight flickered along the walls—weak, yellow, fighting to stay alive.
The entrance hall stretched huge and shadowed.
The ceiling disappeared into darkness. Ragged banners hung from splintered beams, the faded falcon crest of House Carleon barely visible under layers of dust and mildew. Long carpets ran the length of the floor; they had soaked up so much old blood over the years that they looked almost tar-black now.
With every step she took, faint voices brushed past her ears—whispers in a tongue she didn't know, thin and papery, like dead leaves scraping together.
