Chapter 43 The Weight Of Strangers

• The house had grown quiet again, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional whine of the wind outside pressing against the frost-coated windows. In the dim light, the two Arctic foxes moved with a kind of unearthly grace, their snowy coats gleaming as they padded silently across the floor. They had claimed this house as much as Lucy had, moving as though it had always been theirs.
• For weeks now, they’d stayed with her. She had grown used to their constant presence—the way they curled up on the worn rugs, the light thud of their paws against the wood floors, and the way their eyes always seemed to catch the flicker of light in ways that made them seem almost more spirit than animal.
• The male, whom Lucy had quietly started calling Ash, was always watchful, his silver-blue gaze keen and sharp. The female, Lira, was gentler, more curious, though no less aware. Together, they were an inseparable pair, mates drawn to each other as if bound by threads Lucy could never see.