Chapter 1

“Fourteen years,” John muttered, twisting the worn leather strap of her carry-on. “Still haven’t packed light.” He handed it over like surrendering a hostage.

Jennifer kissed his cheek, tasting salt and cold morning air. “Megyn’s violin recital Thursday - don’t let Kelly record vertically.” Their daughters waved from the Volvo, Kelly’s thumbs-up half-hearted through fogged glass. Heathrow’s departure drop-off smelled of diesel and inevitability.

Inside Terminal 5, Jennifer swapped her wedding ring for the Victory Airlines crest pin - sterling wings biting cloud. Pre-flight checks hummed through her: emergency exits memorized, oxygen mask deployment rehearsed, thermos filled with Earl Grey. Only three first-class passengers meant breathing room or boredom. She wondered which.

The coach section pressed thick as London rush-hour, travelers folded into seats like origami cranes. A toddler wailed near row 32; Jennifer caught the mother’s exhausted glance and flashed instinctive sympathy. Blessedly, she thought, we’ve borrowed two coach attendants for business class. Crew whispers confirmed it: smooth sailing predicted.

Mr. Alan sat in 2C, his fingers tracing constellations on a laminated star map. His cardigan smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and library books – Oxford, Jennifer guessed, from his pronunciation of “Constantinople” to the sisters across the aisle. He’d tucked a worn copy of Herodotus beneath his thigh. Retired history professor, perhaps? His eyes crinkled when Jennifer offered champagne. “Just sparkling water, dear. At my age, altitude’s mischief enough.”

Sable and Tabitha Williams occupied 3A and 3B. Black cashmere sweaters draped their shoulders like liquid shadow, contrasting sharply with Sable’s vermillion silk scarf. They spoke in low, melodic voices discussing Benin bronzes at the British Museum – critiques sharp but vocabulary precise. Tabitha’s diamond tennis bracelet caught the cabin lights as she gestured; Sable’s laugh was a warm, husky ripple. “Your pin,” Tabitha noted, nodding at Jennifer’s wings. “Victory’s 1987 redesign? Sterling silver instead of gold plate. Wise choice.”

As Jennifer poured Pellegrino, Tabitha’s gaze lingered, measuring. “Darling, observe,” she murmured to Sable, barely audible over the engines’ rising thrum. “That flawless posture – military school or ballet? Five-foot-eight precisely. Auburn hair pinned just so...” Her eyes flickered over Jennifer’s crisp collar and Victory-blue scarf knot. “Classic bone structure. Educated vowels beneath the Midwest cordiality.”

Sable tilted her champagne flute thoughtfully. “Exactly the phenotype Ms. Markson requires.” Her thumb brushed the rim, leaving no print. “And charm woven seamlessly into professionalism. Watch.” She raised her voice slightly. “Attendant? Your earl grey thermos smelled divine earlier. Might we trouble you for a cup?”

Jennifer smiled, heating water efficiently. As she served Sable, Tabitha’s ringed hand grazed hers—briefly cold. “My sister adores tea rituals,” Tabitha murmured. “She believes they reveal souls.” Jennifer noted the sisters exchanged glances heavy with unspoken agreement.

Hours slipped away. Outside the windows, indigo deepened into starless void as they crossed the Atlantic. Cabin lights dimmed to a drowsy amber glow. Passengers cocooned in blankets; even Mr. Alan’s star map lay abandoned on his tray table. Jennifer moved softly, distributing eye masks and whispering goodnights. Sable produced two elegant crystal glasses from her carry-on. “Mr. Alan? We brought hibiscus-infused water—chilled. Calming before sleep.”

The gentleman blinked slowly. “How thoughtful.” He accepted the glass, its surface instantly fogging in his warm grasp. Jennifer hesitated nearby, her gaze sharpening. The sisters watched him intently as he took three long swallows. “Remarkably refreshing,” he murmured, eyelids fluttering.

Within minutes, Alan’s chin sank toward his chest. His breathing deepened into rhythmic gusts, fingers slackening against the star map. Jennifer approached quietly. “Sir?” She gently shook his shoulder—no response. Alarm threaded her thoughts. Unlikely altitude sedation. Too fast. She glanced at the sisters; Sable offered a serene smile, Tabitha’s expression unreadable beneath lowered lashes.

Jennifer retreated to the galley, her pulse tapping a staccato against her ribs. Tea. She needed tea. The ritual steadied her—boiling water, porcelain cup warmed, Earl Grey leaves releasing their bergamot sigh. Steam curled around her face as she stirred honey into the amber liquid. Outside, the Atlantic yawned ink-black beneath indifferent stars. She set the cup on the galley counter. “Just a moment,” she murmured to no one, heading aft toward the lavatory.

The cabin lay submerged in stillness. Even the engines seemed muted—a deep, resonant hum cradling the sleeping forms. Only Sable remained awake, her profile etched against the window’s void like a cameo. As Jennifer’s footsteps faded, Sable moved. Silk whispered against cashmere. She slid from her seat, a shadow among shadows, and approached the galley. Her fingers dipped into a concealed pocket, withdrawing a vial filled with viscous liquid the color of bruised plums. One drop, then two, fell soundlessly into Jennifer’s steaming tea. A faint curl of vapor rose, carrying a scent like crushed violets and damp earth—gone in an instant.

Jennifer returned, rubbing chilled hands. The Earl Grey beckoned; she lifted the cup, inhaling the familiar bergamot warmth—and paused. Beneath it, something else clung: dark, sweet, primal. She dismissed it as fatigue. The first sip flooded her throat with heat ... and a trailing lick of velvet fire. Her shoulders loosened instantly, tension melting away like snow on warm skin. A sigh escaped her. Strange. The tea usually sharpened her focus. Now, colors seemed richer—the amber cabin lights pulsed gently. She leaned against the counter, cup cradled close, feeling oddly weightless. Vulnerable.