“The river doesn’t fight the stone,” she murmured from the page. “It shapes it.”
Time stretched.
The board watched through reinforced glass, pale and silent.
Minutes became an hour. Atlas’s rigid ears slowly lowered. His breathing softened. He stepped back, then forward again, uncertain.
Eventually, he did something I hadn’t seen in months.
He lay down.
Then, carefully, he rested his heavy head in her lap and released a long, exhausted sigh.
I felt something inside my chest break open.
I moved toward them slowly. “How?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
Lily looked up at me with clear, unwavering eyes. “He’s not unstable, Mr. Montgomery,” she said. “He’s afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of something that doesn’t belong here,” she replied.
She pointed toward the small silver tray where my afternoon tea was served each day. Always prepared by Charles’s personal assistant.
“I’ve stayed in shelters,” she continued quietly. “They use mild sedatives sometimes to calm aggressive strays. I recognize the smell. It’s faint. But it’s in your tea.”
The words landed like ice water.
I ordered immediate testing.