Verity Hartley lay still in her narrow bed, the linen sheets crisp against her skin despite the warmth dawning beyond the glass panes. The larkspur grew just outside her window—planted by her own hand in memory of her mother—and it was from their gentle rustling, not the clamor of mining carts or the distant shouts of early risers, that she’d awoken. A lark chirruped atop the garden gate, its warble interrupting the morning hush.