I ignored him, my eyes flying down the page to the paragraph marked with a red star.

*The Celestia gown is not just a dress. Inside the lining of the bodice, sewn between the silk and the bone, is the true—*

The door frame gave way with a loud, echoing crack, and the door swung open.

Harrison stood in the shattered doorway, his wool overcoat damp from the evening mist.

Behind him stood Dr. Marren, holding a heavy black medical bag.

Two men in thick, unmarked gray uniforms pressed in closely behind them.

“Get away from her, Matteo,” Harrison said, his voice flat and cold.

Matteo did not move, but I could feel the tremor in his shoulder as he blocked me from Harrison’s view.

I quickly folded my mother’s letter and shoved it deep into the inner pocket of my coat.

“Vivian, you are unwell,” Dr. Marren said, stepping into the room with a practiced, soothing tone.

“Your husband has expressed deep concern for your safety, and we are here to transport you to the clinic.”