A burst of blinding brilliance that filled the hall—white, hot, and searing—so bright it stole her breath. The force pushed her backwards. Her ears rang. Her cheeks burned. Her heart hammered so hard it ached.
When the light faded, the spot where Lysandra had stood was empty. No voices. No movement.
No Lysandra.
Just the wild, terrified certainty of a ten-year-old.
Her sister was gone. Gone the way only dead people are.
Adults rushed around Poppy afterward, shouting, whispering, refusing to meet her gaze.
She begged them to open the door.
No one would.
No one said Lysandra’s name.
No explanation. Just silence, heavy and permanent.
Poppy learned that grief can be a hole you fall into without warning.
A week later, she was lifted into a carriage, a trunk she hadn’t packed at her feet, a too-large cloak slipping off her shoulders. No farewell. No comfort.
Nothing but snow falling softly as the wheels creaked forward.
She pressed her forehead to the cold window and clutched the frayed ribbon Lysandra had braided into her sister’s hair days before.
The estate disappeared behind drifting white. She cried until she slept.
She found blessed peace at boarding school. Arcaneum was warmer for Poppy in every way. It had structured halls, steady routines, teachers who spoke to her without anger or resentment.
She grew, studied, and then taught. She learned how to suppress the memory of Lysandra’s disappearance into a small, quiet part of herself where no one could touch it.
Nineteen years passed.
Poppy never returned home. But winter stayed with her.
Some absences do.
Chapter 1
Sinclair House, 1811
Penelope stood in total silence, taking in the horror scene before her.
Massacre. Someone had torn through her parents and the servants and then left their bodies strewn in pieces, blood painting the walls. Bile surged in her throat unbidden.
How could this have happened? Her family was supposed to be protected behind the arcane wards. Only someone who was welcome could have done this. But who?
Cuckoo, cuckoo. The sound shattered the silence and shocked Penelope from her trance. Her gaze lifted, and she saw something that froze her blood.
Welcome Home Poppy.
How cruel and yet oddly relieving. Someone beat her to this, ending these vile sorcerers and stopping their hateful existence. Penelope exhaled slowly. Nineteen years of planning, of training, of shaping herself for what needed to be done, and someone else had made the decision first. Not mercy. Not justice. Simply removal.
Perhaps it was better this way. She would never know whether she could have crossed that line, whether she would have felt anything afterward. Patricide wasn’t something society forgave, even when it was necessary. Even when the people involved had destroyed the one person who had ever genuinely loved her.
The room reeked of blood—metallic, tangy, and fresh. Picking her way through the carnage, Penelope ascended the stairs, her pace unhurried. Blood squelched on the rug at the landing.
