"There’s a child in the ice!" Dawn's voice cut the morning like a knife. It came sharp from the foot of the carriage, thin as a plea and twice as urgent. Harper's fingers did not leave the warming bowl in her lap. The bowl steamed in the chill, fragrant with broth she did not need. She watched the lane through the carriage window as if it were a painting—Hallow Lane, vendor carts, a smear of early light on Mirror Lake. A pale shape lay at the water's edge. A woman knelt beside it. A child—smaller than a bread loaf—was no more than a folded thing of bone and wet linen. "Dawn—" Harper said. The word was small. Measurement lived inside it. "Stop the coach. Please. For God's sake—" Dawn's hand touched the fabric at Harper's knee, fingers hard with need. "She looks like—" "Like what?" Harper asked. No shock leached into the voice. That would be the old Harper: raw, unarmored. This Harper kept a ledger in her chest, and every impulse was a column to be balanced. "Like Pearl," Dawn whispered. The name landed like a stone. Dawn's eyes had gone wet and hungry and furious all at once. "She looks like Miss Pearl. Harper—" Harper could smell the cold itself: a thin, metallic clean from Mirror Lake. Memory rose unbidden—the cracking sound under ice, a child's scream swallowed by water, the sudden, impossible lightness of