She sat bolt upright, cold as the stone under her — the moment was back. A child's cry. A silk dress in hands that weren't hers. A laugh that smelled of wine and mercy traded for rumor. The burn of shame. The last thing: a carriage wheel, splintering wood, then the dark. Matilda Cline blinked away the memory as if it were smoke. The west parlor of Cline Manor smelled of lemon oil and old paper. The fire in the hearth pushed heat toward the ceiling but not into her bones. She forced the breath out in one slow line and listened. "Lord Cline will want to know." Yun's voice was sharp as a whip. The housemaid's footsteps came like punctuation. The door slammed open. Yun stood in the doorway, apron askew, face flushed. She carried a scrap of silk clutched to her chest like a scandal laid bare. "She wore it," Yun spat. "I saw the hem. The embroidery at the cuff—Matilda's blue thread. She'd no right—" Emilia stood a step behind Yun, hands folded, face pale but steady. Her fingers were stained with dye, a smear across her thumb. Matilda watched the smear like it might name her. "Emilia," Matilda said. The name fell the room into a new shape. It was nothing like the name had been in the other lives — in those she had spat it like poison. Now the syllables were careful. Yun jabbed a finger at Emilia. "She