The light brightened again.
A faint, high tone joined the hum, barely audible, more felt than heard. It made my teeth ache.
Miora made a soft sound, half-whimper, half-protest, and pressed the heel of her hand to her chest. Her eyes shone with something that wasn’t just reflection. Guilt? Grief? Fear?
I went to her, kneeling by her chair. “Miora. Please. What is it? What’s under the cellar?”
She looked at me.
And in that look, I saw it:
Knowledge.
Old and heavy.
The kind you’ve carried for so long you’ve forgotten what it feels like not to.
“Oh, child,” she whispered. “Elira…”
She stopped.
The name hung between us for a heartbeat, then dissolved.
“Elira what?” I pressed. “What did she do? What did she put down there?”
Miora’s mouth worked soundlessly. Her hand tightened on the armrest so hard I heard the wood creak.
The hum from below climbed a note.
The light spilled further, reaching toward the center of the room now in delicate, searching tendrils through the floorboard seams. Not fast. Not explosive. But inexorable, slow as roots pushing through soil.
Karvey set himself between the pantry and the rest of us, planting his stone feet. The faint glow traced around his toes, then hesitated, as if respecting the boundary of carved granite.
The other gargoyles on the roof shifted again; dust sifted down from the beams. The cottage Ward flickered, then burned steadily, taking their cue from Miora and my mother’s work.
Everyone was looking at Miora now. My father, jaw tight. My mother, eyes wide, grief and anger and worry warring in her expression.
Twobble, clutching his muffin like a stress ball. Skonk, ink-smeared fingers frozen over his notebook. Keegan, a solid presence at my back, one hand hovering over my shoulder like he wanted to anchor me and didn’t quite dare.
“Miora,” I said softly. “We need to know. Whatever this is, it’s happeningnow.We can’t protect anything if we don’t understand it.”
She opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
She blinked in confusion and tried again, throat working. Nothing. Her lips formed shapes, Elira, circle, below, but there was no voice behind them. A dry, breathy rasp at best.
A flicker of panic leapt in her eyes.
“Did something silence her?” Mom whispered.
I reached for my magic, trying to feel the pattern around Miora, binding, curse, anything. It was like trying to read while someone shook the page. The hum from below interfered, warping my senses.
Keegan’s hand finally settled on my shoulder, grounding. “Maeve.”
Miora pressed her fingers to her own throat now, breathing fast. She shook her head, frustration burning in the lines of her face. Tears slipped free, catching the cold white light and turning it bright on her skin.
She looked down at the cellar door, at the glowing seam.
