The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out by a vacuum the moment Arthur stepped over the threshold. The fire that Grey had spent the early morning hours rekindling was roaring, but it provided no comfort. It was just a backdrop for the predatory shadow Arthur cast against the peeling wallpaper of the Winter Wing.
Beatrice walked in with the grace of a funeral director, her purple suit so vibrant it looked violent against the grey decay of the house. She didn't look at the room, she looked at us, her eyes sharp and clinical, like she was performing an autopsy on a body that hadn't quite stopped breathing yet.
"The Winter Wing," Beatrice remarked, her voice like cracking glass. "I haven't been in this part of the estate since your grandfather's wake, Grey. It still smells of disappointment."
