My mum’s friends, it seemed. If only I could contact them somehow… Maybe I would have the chance to talk to Hudson again. Maybe he could help me contact the others—but they probably haven’t talked with my mum since she moved away. I’ve never heard her mention any of their names before.
I sank into the brittle pillow, when a slow melody crept into the room—thin and discordant, as if played underwater. I looked up from the book. Something moved on the chipped surface of the dresser. I rose slowly, crossing the room, to see a tiny ballerina dancing in slow circles, her porcelain face frozen in time. Her tutu was woven with black feathers, stiff and jaggedlike broken wings. A swan curled at her feet, its eyes dark pinpricks staring into nothing.
Each note from the music box landed like the tap of cold bone on piano keys, then—silence. So abrupt it felt violent. The air turned dense, it pressed against my skin, thick and watching. The room seemed to lean inward.
I set the box down, as if it might bite me, and took a step back when the window snapped open. A gust swept through the room, sharp and icy, and moonlight spilled across the floor, shimmering in an unnatural blue. But my eyes locked onto the thing below the sill. Petals, long dead, swirling in slow, soundless motion. Not lifted by wind, but moving as if stirred by something…
Something breathing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AGNES
Sometime in the Seventeenth Century,
Thornhill
Mornings at Thornhill are always quietest before the fates stir.
I wake to the sound of water boiling. Not a whistle—a soft, steady hush, like breath drawn in and never quite released. The Monster likes to start the tea early. I think it enjoys the stillness before I come clattering down the stairs.
When I open the window, the fog is still draped over the garden—lace-thin and blue-gold in the morning light. Everything looks like it’s been dusted in sugar. There’s a kind of hush to it that feels sacred. Like the house is still deciding if it wants to wake up.
I pull on my muddy boots and my petal-stained cloak, the green velvet one that smells like rosemary and woodsmoke, and lace the charm around my throat, a tiny, glass-threaded spindle. It pulses faintly against my skin, like a second heartbeat.
The kitchen smells like rosehip and anise, or clove maybe. The Monster is already pouring tea into two mismatched cups, its fingers long and black-veined.
“You woke early,” Its voice echoes slightly when it speaks. “Did you dream?”
I nod, even though I’m certain it knows I did.
We walk through the garden in silence, past the yews and the stone basin where water collects rain and moonlight. At the edge of the grounds, an altar glows like a pearl in the morning light. It’s standing out like a beacon among the soft wildness of the garden. It doesn’t belong here, yet it’s becoming part of the landscape, its sharp lines softened by the creeping ivy and the quiet song of the wind. I hear the river flowing just beyond the walls, its constant movement pulling at something inside me, something I’m still learning to understand.
I light the incense, watching the tendrils of smoke curl upwards, rising with a purpose that only I can sense. Someone passed last night, and a soul lingering too long might become dangerous. The Monster stands beside the altar, its silvered finger tracing sigils into the marble, each symbol shimmering like a star, then settling into the stone with a soft, deliberate finality. I watch, waiting for the hum of magic that I know will follow.
The Monster never rushes. It’s a patient teacher, reminding me that magic, like life, should always come with warmth, with something that nourishes. I see the tea steeping in the porcelain pot It carries, lavender, fennel, and crushed rose petals floating inside. The Monster insists on warmth in rituals. Bread. Fire. Bloom. Magic should never be cold or sharp, like teeth. It should be soft, tender, like the touch of a hand reaching out in the dark.
The ritual is simple.
I close my eyes, focusing on the threads—the silver strands of fate that shimmer beneath the surface of everything, connectingthe living and the dead. The tug comes, faint at first, like a flicker in the distance. I reach for it, follow it with my senses, feeling its pull like a whisper in my chest. A soul, lost in between worlds, seeking a way home.
I lift my hands, tracing the same sigils in the air. I can feel it. The soul, quiet, confused, yearning for peace. I call to it softly, a thread of comfort pulling it closer. I can see her now—a young woman, her face blurred with sorrow, caught in the web of her past. She’s still tethered to this world, unable to move on.
The Monster steps closer, a silent guide, waiting for me to complete the ritual. It knows this dance, knows the fragile line between the living and the dead. I reach out, my fingers brushing the delicate thread of her soul. She follows, and I guide her across. Her form slowly fades into the warmth of the magic, slipping away into peace.
When the ritual is finished, the altar goes still, and the incense smoke hangs like a memory in the air. The Monster moves to pour the tea, its movements slow and deliberate. It offers me a cup.
“Not every soul can be freed so easily,” it says, its voice low and careful. “The weight of the past lingers, even in the light.”
I nod, watching the petals settle in the bottom of the cup. “But some… some find their way.” I step away from the altar, my heart still a little heavier than before.
The threads of fate, delicate as they are, have their own rhythms. Sometimes they need to be untangled gently. Other times, they need to be cut, severed entirely. I had learned this, after so long.
The garden is different now, softer, the morning light has pulled back just enough to reveal the warmth underneath, soft and golden. The air is full of promise, new growth, new life.
I leave the Monster behind and wander the garden, the weight of the day settling into the earth beneath my feet.
I gather flowers with the silver knife tucked into my boot. Only the ones humming, whispering to me. Some bloom red when a choice is being made. Some curl black when loss is near. Today, most of them are pink and pale yellow, the colour of quiet joy.
