And my fingers, deep in the stuffing, closed on something that was not a feather.

It was hard.

It was small.

It was wrapped tightly in something, buried deep in the very center of the pillow, in a place no ordinary hand would ever have found by accident.

My heart began to pound, slow and heavy, against my ribs.

I sat very still for a moment with my hand inside that pillow and the whole silent house around me, and I understood, in a way I could not yet put into words, that my mother-in-law had not been confused at all.

Chapter 14 — The Velvet Pouch