4141.309 · November 5, 1821 AD
The Woman Who Died Today
The study feels different now—smaller, yet connected to vastnesses she can barely imagine. She's stepped through a threshold of her own making. No returning to the woman she was before. Below in the garden, her son bends over lessons, so small, so innocent, so utterly dependent upon choices he'll never understand. That woman who threatened to flee rather than accept the unacceptable? Gone now. Destroyed as surely as if she'd stepped through the portal herself.
Madelyn stands alone in silence, wounded hand pressed against her chest, eyes fixed where reality tore itself open and sealed shut. The portal's gone but the study feels permanently changed—connected to spaces beyond ordinary understanding.
She pulls back drapes, flooding the room with daylight. Below, William Jr. plays with Miss Fletcher. Watching him strikes Madelyn with force that nearly brings her to her knees. So dependent upon choices he'll never comprehend.
"Forgive me," she whispers—though she no longer knows if the words are meant for her son, her husband, or the woman she was three months ago.
That woman is dead. In her place stands someone harder, colder, more dangerous. Someone capable of sealing blood oaths with supernatural forces. Of weaving deceptions that will endure for generations. Of choosing her child's survival over every principle she once believed inviolable.
She descends to the garden. Kneels in grass heedless of damage to mourning dress. Gathers her son with fierceness that makes him squirm and giggle.
"Mama, too tight!"
"Let me hold you just a little longer," she whispers. "Let me remember what this feels like, before—"
She cannot finish. Cannot speak aloud what she's become or what his future will demand.
