THE house was a tomb. The hallways breathed with silence and secrets, the walls pressing close around Orlanda as she crept behind Queen. Each step made on the tiles felt like a gunshot in her chest. Her pulse drummed in her ears louder than her footsteps, and every shadow felt like Oswald’s cold eyes waiting to drag her back.

Queen walked two paces ahead, calm but sharp-eyed, pausing at every corridor to tilt her head, listening for footsteps. She had chosen the time perfectly, mid-afternoon, when the daily hired kitchen staff are out for deliveries, when the few guards inside were lazy and half-blind with heat and routine.

They passed...