Nanami Kento stood at the iron gate, briefcase in hand, his trench coat buttoned to the collar. He had not been invited inside. He never was.

He pressed the intercom. A long silence. Then, the crackle of static, and a voice—smooth, low, with the faintest trace of amusement.

The courtyard was immaculate, gravel paths raked into perfect spirals, stone lanterns lining the way to the main entrance. A gardener—some poor soul hired for appearances, he assumed—bowed as he passed. The air smelled of cedar and damp earth.

The front door opened before he could knock. Queenie McLean stood in the threshold, draped in a silk robe the color of midnight, her black hair loose and tumbling past her shoulders. She looked like she hadn't slept. She looked like she never needed to.

The nursery was at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. A soft, gurgling sound drifted through the crack. Nanami pushed it open.

Anya lay in her crib, kicking her tiny legs, a tuft of blonde hair sticking up from her head like a dandelion. Her eyes, icy blue and impossibly bright, found him instantly. She smiled—a gummy, toothless grin that made something in his chest ache.