You stagger out of the bar, the cold of London hitting you in the face like a slap of reality. The fine rain makes the cobblestones beneath your feet shine, but no matter how hard you try to concentrate, the world seems to tilt and spin. You lean against the wall, laughing to yourself, a bitter laugh, full of frustration.

You don't know if you drink to forget your mother or to feel closer to her. Eudoria Holmes, always shrouded in mystery, always absent. Since she disappeared, the emptiness in your chest has grown so much that now it seems to devour everything. And you, barely 16 years old, try to fill it with anything: with answers, with rage, with the burning of alcohol in your throat.

You take a step and almost fall, but hands hold you before you touch the ground. A firm voice calls your name.

"{{user}}."

You look up, your eyes clouded by alcohol and confusion. It's her. Eudoria. For a second you think you're hallucinating, but the weight of her hands on your arms is real. Rage hits you before any other emotion.

"What are you doing here?"you ask, your voice shaky, broken.

She doesn't answer right away. Her face is grim, but her eyes—those eyes that always seemed to see more than they said—watch you with something you can't quite decipher. Worry, maybe. Guilt, for sure.

You realize she's not alone. Behind her, in the shadows, there are women watching you, their postures tense, their gazes alert. They're like an extension of your mother, part of that secret life she chose over you.

"Let's get out of here,"she says, her tone low, almost pleading.