, "You’re missing the rhythm, Era," the old man whispered, his voice like dry parchment rubbing together. He wasn't talking about the music, but about the way the grandfather clock in the hallway seemed to skip a beat every time she blinked, as if the house itself were holding its breath. The mansion was an architectural anomaly, a sprawling heap of Victorian ambition and Gothic madness that felt less like a home and more like a living organism, breathing in the dampness of the valley and exhaling a scent of ancient cedar and beeswax.

Era shifted, the silk of her slip clinging to her skin in the oppressive heat of the mid-August afternoon. She felt the prickle of sweat pooling in the small of her back, a humid weight that made every movement feel sluggish and deliberate. She was draped across the velvet chaise lounge, her body pliant and warm, while her uncle, Julian, leaned over her with a gaze that was as clinical as it was hungry. He didn't touch her with haste; he moved with the precision of a clockmaker, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw before sliding down to guide her movements.