Miss Fay's Cottage

The stone cottage sits crooked along a narrow lane, its slate-gray walls slick with mist that clings to the mortar between the blocks. A single window pours golden lamplight onto the path, cutting through the gloom like a beacon. Inside, the air carries the sharp metallic tang of fresh ink and the stale sweetness of old chamomile tea; stacks of chronicle pages lie fan-like across a scarred desk beneath a brass reading lamp, its shade tilted to throw the weakest possible light. The cottage is no refuge—its walls feel thin, its furniture sparse, the floorboards bowing underfoot as if poorly anchored against the wind outside. A hallway leads past a minuscule kitchen to a curtained alcove containing little more than a cot and a shelf of scroll cylinders, every surface crowded with notations in Vivien’s hurried hand. The cottage carries the scent of haste, the cold seep of the lane outside, and the quiet desperation of someone who knows she has been seen. Romana will pry open drawers and lift papers, seeking not warmth but proof.