Her father didn’t knock.
He never did anymore.
The air changed when he stepped inside—colder, heavier. Lily could tell the difference between her sisters’ presence and his. Clarissa and Amara brought perfume and movement and laughter. Her father brought a scent of aftershave and impatience, like he was annoyed at the very idea of standing still.
“Lily,” he said, and even her name sounded unfamiliar on his tongue, like it didn’t fit.
Her fingers froze on the Braille dots.
“Dad?” she asked, and hated how hopeful it sounded. Hope was a dangerous habit in this house.
He didn’t answer her question like a person. He moved across the room—she heard the quiet scrape of a shoe against wood, heard him exhale like he had something unpleasant to get through. Then something soft landed on her lap.
Fabric.
A veil.
It smelled faintly of cedar, like it had been stored away.
