Lakesedge Estate is a silhouette against the night sky. The road gives way to a graveled drive, arched by an intricate iron gateway. As we pass through the gate, Florence reaches out to collect an unlit lantern hooked on the post. She lights it with her sparklight. The colorless flame glimmers through the dark as we ride toward the house.
There are hills all around, thick with trees and studded with sharp granite outcrops. It’s like a separate world, quiet and still under the secretive moonlight. I cling to the edge of the saddle as I look around, trying to see more. But it’s too dark. Everything beyond Florence’s lantern falls away to shadows.
The drive slopes downward; the house is at the very bottom. We stop, and the monster gets quickly down from our horse. He hasn’t spoken a word to me the entire way. Now he very deliberately avoids making eye contact as he helps me dismount.
I climb inelegantly from the saddle, tripping over my feet when I step onto the ground. I’m sore from the days of riding, and I have to take a moment to breathe through the burn of my muscles, knotted into unfamiliar aches.
The monster pushes past me, leading his horse away into the darkness beyond the house.
“Wait,” Florence calls after him. “Don’t you want some light?”
She takes the reins of her horse and follows him with the lantern, leaving Arien and me alone in the quiet outside the front door.
I step closer to him, clutching my satchel against my chest. Almost my entire life is folded up inside: the itchy sweater I wear in the winter, a nightdress that’s gotten thin at the elbows, a pair of stockings with mends across the toes. And a handful of stones, my treasures from the windowsill in our cottage bedroom.
“It’s so big,” Arien says as we stare up at the house. “It looks like something from one of your stories, Leta.”
“It’s…” I reach for the word, unsure. “It’s beautiful.”
All the rumors say Lakesedge is cursed. But none of them mention the faded, neglected beauty of it all. I thought it would be a place of spikes and shadows. But Arien is right—it’s like a story.
Most of the windows are closed, and a thick tangle of ivy winds between the wooden shutters. The front door is carved with a raised pattern. I trace my fingers across it, over vines and leaves so delicate they could have been embroidered against the wood. The iron handle is carved, too. An enormous ring shaped like a wreath, furled with leaves and bellflowers. When I put my hand against it, the cold press of iron makes me shiver. But slowly, it begins to warm beneath my palm.
A strange emotion threads around me like the vines woven across the shutters. There’s something so sad about this poor, solemn house, with its windows like closed-over eyes and a ring of cold iron at the door. It’s like something kept under a spell, too long asleep. I put my hand against the stone wall. Close my eyes. There’s a stirring beneath my fingertips. Like the house is breathing, deep and slow.
Then a sharp cry echoes from the slope above the house. I snatch back my hand. A feathered shape swoops away into the night. Arien and I grab for each other. My heart begins to pound urgently, flurried as whatever bird was just disturbed.
The door opens, and a girl stands there. Small and plump, she’s my age or younger. Her white skin is sprinkled with coppery freckles, and her chestnut hair is pulled into a five-strand braid that almost reaches her waist.
“Hello.” She blinks at us from behind her large, round-framed glasses and smiles hesitantly. “I’m Clover Aensland.”
She steps back to let us pass through the door. The entrance hall is easily the biggest space I’ve ever been in. It’s overlooked by an arched window set high in the wall above the upstairs landing. Through the glass I can see handfuls of stars. It’s late, the dim space before new morning.
Clover laughs good-naturedly as I stare at the room. “I know. My mother’s whole cottage would fit in this hall.”
Arien looks around, wide eyed. “It’s all so empty.”
It is empty. I can hear voices from the depths of the house—the measured notes of Florence, the deeper tones of the monster, but the entrance hall is quiet and still. There’s hardly any furniture, and the walls are bare. There’s no light except for a single candle. A lamp hangs in the gloom above, but it’s unlit, threaded all over with cobwebs. Beneath the dust, the glass shades gleam like gemstones.
We follow Clover across the hall and down a long corridor.
“Have you been here very long?” I ask her.
“About a year. It’s my first job, my first time away from home.” She tugs at the end of her braid and smiles, shyly proud. “I’m the alchemist for Lakesedge Estate.”
I look at her with surprise. I’ve heard of how alchemists sometimes leave the Maylands—their commune near the far-off capital—to live at an estate and help the lord. It’s said they can do wondrous things. Heal beyond the power of village herbalists. Make crops grow from drought-ruined fields. But the materials used in their magic are rare and expensive, so most places like Greymere only have a healer.
“Oh,” Arien says, his face alight with a peculiar longing. “Can I see your spells?”
Clover laughs and rolls back her sleeve to show us her arm. Her skin is inked all over with tiny, detailed marks. Circles and sharp-cornered lines all connected together. Arien leans in to take a closer look. “They’re beautiful, Clover.”
I wish I could share his awe. The symbols are beautiful, but the thought of having spells woven into me, marked forever on my body, is unsettling.
Clover leads us into a large kitchen. There’s a table at the center and the cast-iron stove has just been lit. The new fire sends a flickering, orange glow into the room. Clover moves around busily, setting the table for tea. While Arien helps her, I go over to look out the window. Behind the house is an overgrown garden, silent in the moonlight.
The monster comes into the room. He ignores us, pausing by the altar on the opposite wall to light the candles. He takes one from the shelf and sets it into a jar, which he puts down carefully on the table beside the teacups that Clover laid out.
He’s no longer wearing his cloak, and he looks younger without the weight of it around his shoulders. If I didn’t know any better, he might just be a boy, with his hair knotted from the wind and tired lines beneath his dark eyes.
I start to walk toward him. I don’t know what spurs me forward. Some reckless impulse. Like throwing a stone into the well just to hear it splash. Or maybe I want to prove to myself that I don’t have to be afraid.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Lord Sylvanan?”
His head snaps up. “Don’t call me that. I don’t use my title.”
“Well then … do you have a name?”
He stares at me like it’s the most ridiculous question. I move closer still. The candlelight turns our shadows to ghosts on the floor. Up close, I can pick out tiny details of him that I hadn’t noticed before. His hair isn’t black but dark, dark brown. Both of his ears are pierced with rows of slender, silver rings.
Finally, he sighs. “Rowan.”
“Rowan.” The shape of it lingers after I speak it aloud. A monster. A boy. A boy with a name that I can feel on my tongue. Darkly sweet, like honeyed tea. Heat starts to creep across my face. I laugh, nervous. “I suppose you’re a little too young to be a real lord.”
The monster—Rowan—scowls. “I’m older than you.” When I raise a brow, he goes on. “I’m nineteen.”
“Two whole years? Oh yes, an eternity.”
“Wait,” Clover says. “Rowan, what’s wrong with your arm? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt? This looks awful!”
She reaches out to the bloodied cloth wrapped over his sleeve, then tries to touch his hand, where he’s tied a fresh bandage over his torn glove. But just like he did with Florence, he pushes her away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
She sighs, irritated, but doesn’t argue. The kettle starts to boil, and Arien takes it from the heat. Clover goes back to the table and starts to make tea. While it steeps, she takes out a small glass vial from her pocket. The liquid inside is a virulent green. She pours the tea then uncaps the vial; a curl of steam hisses out as she tips the strange potion into each cup.
Arien reaches for his cup, but I put my hand on his wrist to stop him. “What is this for?”
“Just to help you sleep,” Clover says lightly. “So you won’t dream.”
Rowan drinks his own dosed tea without hesitation, then looks from me to my untouched cup. “Do you think she means to poison you?”
His gaze is all challenge. My eyes fixed to his, I lift my cup and take a tentative sip. The tea smells of summer: leaves and flowers and a bright, cloudless sky. But it tastes terrible, worse than any draft from the herbalist.
Arien drinks, too. He cringes at the taste and swallows with difficulty.
Clover holds up a jar. “Did you want some honey?”
“Um.” He drinks more, struggling not to cough. “No thank you.”
Our eyes meet, and his mouth twitches into a smile. My brother makes a face at me, and I make one back. I force myself to drink another mouthful of the tea, then put my cup back down on the table.
Rowan sighs tiredly. He runs his hand over his hair, then tightens the cord that ties it back. “Arien, there’s a room you can have, upstairs at the top of the landing.” He frowns, then looks at me. “I suppose I’ll need to put you somewhere, too. Try the door opposite; it should be unlocked.”
“Yes, well, thank you for finding space for us.” I glance down the hallway of abandoned rooms.
“See that you don’t make me regret it.” Rowan picks up the candle jar and holds it out. “Before you go, we need to discuss some rules.” Though he’s ostensibly speaking to Arien as well, he’s focused on me. “Don’t wander around. Don’t touch anything.”
“Anything?” I look pointedly at the offered candle. “That’s very … unspecific.”
He shoves the jar into my hands, the flame stuttering with the sudden motion. “You know what I mean. I don’t want a repeat of your foolish stunt from last night at the wayside. And make sure you stay away from the lake.”
I wrap my hands tight around the hot glass until it almost burns my skin. It settles on me with a sudden, horrible realization that just outside, beyond the darkened garden, is the place where Rowan drowned his family.
He knows I’m afraid. I’m sure he’s glad of it. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of letting it show.
“I’ll do my best to remember all of your rules.” I cross the room, then stop in the doorway. “Good night, Rowan.”
At the sound of his name, he pauses for a moment. In the changeable light from the candle flame, his expression falters. There’s a flicker of emotion in his eyes that I can’t read.
He points dismissively toward the hallway. “Remember what I said.”
Arien and I go upstairs in a haze of candlelight. We find two rooms opposite each other, the only opened doors in a hallway just as bare as the space below.
Arien’s room has a patchwork quilt on the bed, and a tidy collection of furniture—dresser, desk, table. My room is an afterthought. Dust is thick over the mantelpiece, and there’s a pile of dead leaves in the hearth. The furniture is shrouded in linen cloths.
I stand in the hall, twisting the strap of my satchel. I can’t seem to make myself take a step either way. The upstairs of Lakesedge Estate has the same faded prettiness as the rooms below. But the whole house is full of unfamiliar sounds. Wind creaks through the walls like a whisper. In the pale light, the flowers on the wallpaper look spiny and sharp.
Then something flutters, far away. A whisper that draws longer and lower than a rush of wind. It slithers along the corridor and through the air.
I put my hand on Arien’s arm. “Did you hear that?”
He squints into the darkness, then shakes his head.
“I’m sure I heard a sound.”
The small flame of my candle throws shadows onto the walls as I move hesitantly down the hallway. The sound of the wind is almost like words now. I go over to one of the other closed doors. Try the handle. It doesn’t turn. The house is as hollow and empty as the chambers of a shell.
Arien watches me from his room as I pace back and forth. “You’re going to wear a path in the floor.”
He rifles through the bedside table, finds a sparklight, and touches it to the lamp next to his bed. Then he starts to unpack his bag. I can still hear the sound. I follow it into Arien’s room, my candle held high as I strain to listen. It’s louder. It’s changed.
A wet hush. Like … water. Like there’s water beneath the plaster of the walls, dripping down, and—
I put my hand on the wall, and it stops. “Did you just hear it that time?”
“Leta. I think you should go to bed. It’s late.” When I don’t move, Arien gives me a gentle push. “Come on. You don’t need to stalk around with that look on your face all night.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re imagining every single terrible thing that might happen to me.”
“I’m sure there’s a few things I haven’t been able to think of yet.” We go over to the bed and sit down together. I lean my chin against his shoulder. “What did Rowan say to you last night at the wayside cottage? What does he want from you?”
Arien bends down and unlaces his boots, then kicks them off. “He said he can help me. With my shadows. He can help me control them.”
“But they’re only—” My mouth tastes bitter and a fresh shiver runs over me. Only dreams.
“No.” He stares ahead and refuses to meet my gaze. “No, they’re not.”
Night after night I watched his eyes turn dark. I felt the shadows prickle across my skin as they spilled from his hands. I told myself I wasn’t afraid. That they wouldn’t hurt me. Only dreams. They overcame him; they spilled through him. But they didn’t belong to him.
I look down at the candle and watch the flame dance inside the jar. I breathe in the smell of honeyed wax. “Arien, do you really think you should trust him?”
He lies down with a sigh and turns his back to me. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.”
“You know what happened to his family. What he did to them.”
“Please, Leta.” He burrows his face against the pillow. “Just go to bed. It’s not like the Monster of Lakesedge is going to come up here tonight to devour us.”
“He might.”
“You’ll be first. Because you’ve annoyed him so much.”
“I’d like to see him try.” I get to my feet and pick up the candle, then go across the hall and into my room.
It’s stuffy with a scent of camphor and fireplace soot. Neglect fills the shadowed corners. I set down my candle, open the window to let in some fresh air. But outside is hot and still. The curtains drape around me in dust-filled wisps. I look out into the darkness, but there’s nothing to see. Only the low slope of the hills, the silhouette of trees, and the star-specked sky above the darkened landscape.
If the lake is there, it’s hidden by the night.
When I pull back the cloth that’s draped over my bed, there’s only a bare, unmade mattress. I drop my satchel onto the floor, then lie down, curled up on my side with my boots still on and my sore knees tucked up inside the hem of my dress. This is the first time I’ve slept alone, in my own space. Though the stretch of hall between Arien’s room and mine isn’t much larger than the distance between our beds in the cottage, it feels as vast as an ocean.
My eyes are heavy. I fight against it for a moment, but they dip closed. I’m so tired that my bones feel bruised, and the medicine Clover gave us has dulled everything to a blur. My vision starts to dim. My limbs go heavy. I’m laid out in a field, and vines have wrapped around my whole body and smothered me.
The candle gutters out.
I’m half-sunk in sleep when the cries come.
The sounds cut through the dark. Tangled, thorn-edged howls. I sit up and stare toward the open door. I can see the huddled shape of Arien, asleep in his own room. It isn’t him.
I hold my breath and peer into the darkness, trying to make sense of the cries as they come again. At first, they’re incoherent, mixed with the hollow thud of my pulse. Then they begin to shape themselves into words.
Elan … Elan … please …
It isn’t Arien. But this is the same sound. The same cries. It’s the sound of nightmares. The word echoes over and again until it loses meaning. A name, a plea, a helpless prayer.
Elan … please …
The curtain is a ghostly smear across the window. Night is pressed against the glass. I reach for my satchel and shakily unbuckle the fastenings. Inside, beneath my sweater and my spare dress and my stones, is a small, solid shape. An icon.
Arien painted it for me. Mother never let us into her workshop, but she would sometimes give him scraps of wood or leftover daubs of paint. This one is the first he made. The strokes of color are broad and blurred, like a face seen in a dream. More a wash of color than actual features. The edges are worn smooth from the rub of my thumb, and the frame is shaped to fit neatly inside my hand with a curve that follows my palm.
I run my fingers along the wood. The shape of a chant forms in my mouth—a messier, more indistinct thing than any litany. Keep us safe, keep us safe, let this not be a mistake …
The air tastes of ash and smoke. An indistinct memory stirs up, of a moonlit forest, a winter night. Frost in the air and across my cheeks. A heavy weight in my arms. My breath a cloud of steam as I whisper into the dark. My hands spread open to the cold. Please help us …
I fold my arms tightly around myself as a shiver passes over me.
The cries dim, and the silence fills with a new sound. A hush. A sigh. The light in the room goes soft. The silver, moonlit darkness blackens, blink by blink.
Shadows begin to rise. Shadows. They creep from the corners, slow and languid, then rise like mist around the edges of my bed. No no no … A cold gust of air hisses through the room. The curtains billow out then sweep back against the window. All the cloths draped over the furniture snap and flutter like startled birds.
Shadows. The same shadows that unfurl from Arien’s hands when he dreams.
I get to my feet and rush across the hall. His bed is empty. His room is empty.
I turn back to the doorway. It’s gone. There’s a solid sheet of darkness across the wall. The shadows creep toward me as I stagger back, cold with terror. The thought of that darkness touching me, of being lost beneath it, fills me with a desperate panic.
It moves forward, pushing me farther and farther into the room, until I’m scrambling back on Arien’s bed. The hard plane of the headboard is behind me, solid against my spine, and the icon is a leaden weight in my hand. My heartbeat thunders panic in my ears and pulses hard at the edge of my throat.
I curl my fingers closed, remembering the cold iron of the front door, how it slowly warmed beneath my touch. This beautiful house, with its carved flowers and faded wallpaper and neglected ivy-wreathed loveliness, would it hurt me?
From above comes a rhythmic drip drip drip. I look up. The ceiling is ink black. Rivulets of thick, dark liquid ooze down from the cornices and streak across the walls. The floor ripples and the shadows become a pool of water. The new, wet darkness covers the floor.
The air in the room thickens, until everything sounds hollow and muted. It’s like the damp stillness of the well house. That silent air above the water’s surface. I am there, waiting in the breathless dark. I want to cry out, but all that comes is a whimper.
I think of Rowan, his hands on my arms as we stood beside the trees, the roughness of his voice when he said I can’t promise you safety. My heart twists desperately in my chest. I’m not afraid. I’m not. It’s just light, just the wind. It’s a dream—surely. Arien’s shadows never hurt me, and these won’t, either. Only dreams.
But Arien’s shadows aren’t dreams. They’re a darkness. A darkness that Rowan wants from him, and I—
Another wash of air stirs over me. The cold is a kiss against my cheeks. The water rises, higher and higher. I’m in the lake. Strands of sedge grass start to wrap around me, and I scrape my hands against my throat as they wind tighter and tighter, cutting into my skin. Water washes over my face, and the world turns to a blur of opaque ripples.
I open my mouth to scream, and the black, icy water fills my lungs.