The first tide came through the drawing-room floor at midnight, clear as glass and cold enough to stop the clocks.
Ada lifted her skirts and watched the water climb the chair legs. Nothing floated. Not the ash from the grate, not the dead moths on the sill, not even the letter she had dropped when the house began to breathe.
Then someone knocked from beneath the floorboards.
Three slow knocks. A pause. Three more.
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