It was nearly midnight when Beckett found her. The corridor outside her chamber smelled of old herbs and damp stone , the scent of restless ghosts that never slept in the Callahan estate. Magnolia had wedged a chair under the latch, though anyone who knew her knew locks did little to keep nightmares out.
She sat at the edge of her narrow bed, boots still on, cloak still wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair lay in a dark braid over one shoulder, the end frayed where her fingers had pulled at it over and over. A single candle flickered on the small table by the bed, casting shadows over her hollowed cheeks and the tight line of her mouth.
Beckett rapped once , a soft warning , then nudged the door open. The chair scraped against the floor. Magnolia didn't flinch.
"Get out," she said without looking up.
