The dust motes danced in the shafts of dim light filtering through the high, arched windows of the Armitage estate's west storage wing. This part of the mansion was a graveyard of history—antique furniture draped in white sheets like ghosts of a previous century, crates of silver, and the heavy, lingering scent of cedar and old paper.
Mild moved through the aisles with a thumping heart. He was a man on a mission, fueled by a reckless hope that he could jump-start Arm's fractured mind. He reached the very back, where the shadows were deepest, and there it stood: the tall, mahogany wardrobe. It had been moved from St. Jude's years ago when Arm bought the school's old administrative furniture at an auction—a move Mild had once thought was a display of power, but now realized was a preservation of a memory.
The wood was cool and smooth under his fingertips. With a soft groan of hinges, the door swung open.
