Rowan knew the house had begun to unravel the moment the maid fled in tears. Fen had tormented her one too many times, pushing boundaries and testing patience, and when she quit, every carefully maintained thread of order in the household unraveled. Without someone to keep the territory running smoothly, chaos seeped into every corner like a creeping fog, insidious and relentless.
By the time the moon climbed toward its peak and the clock approached nine, neither Fen nor Rowan had been called to eat. The quiet gnawed at him, a subtle tension he could feel coiling in his chest, gnawing at patience and composure alike. His stomach growled like a restless wolf, the old weakness clawing at him. Ever since that incident with the spicy barbecue months ago, his gut had never fully recovered. Margaret had warned him to eat on time, to avoid flare-ups, yet tonight hunger hollowed him out, sharp and urgent, until the edges of his vision pulsed faintly.
Knock. Knock.
