“Did you see that?” I asked.
The frozen ground crunched beneath Preston’s shoes as he took a step closer. “Are you trying to distract me?”
I met his gaze, my features hardening as I held his eyes, when a bloodcurdling scream cut through the frosty night air.
My heart lurched, the sound high and sharp, and for a moment, I froze. The scream echoed through the night, but then—just as quickly—was swallowed by a mighty thunderclap that split the sky above us, drowning the scream in a deafening roar.
I whirled around, trying to catch the sound again, but the land stilled, as if even the trees were holding their breath outside the maze. I hesitated, unsure if I’d even heard it at all, or if my mind was playing tricks…
But then it came again, stronger this time. A scream, raw and jagged, like the very sound of paralyzing fear. My pulse quickened. I dashed forward, my feet pounding on the damp earth as I navigated between the thorny walls of the maze. The rain, cold and unrelenting, began to fall in sheets, the first of it slicing against my skin. My wet clothes clung heavily to me as I pushed forward, my breath shallow. I couldn’t really tell if it was the water or the fear that made my skin prickle with cold.
Until I came to a dead end.
I cursed under my breath, the words barely audible above the now-persistent downpour. Just as I turned, Preston passed me without a second thought, seemingly knowing the way out of here better than I did. I ran after him, following his form through the rain, and beneath the watchful eyes of the gargoyles, we crossed the garden. The storm had gathered strength, the thunder rolling ominously above us. At the side of the manor, Preston slowed, then vanished from sight.
I rounded the corner, and this time, I was the one who almost let out a scream.
Wide eyes and a gaping mouth, frozen in time. She rose from the ground like the white shell of a ghost, her features caught mid-scream, her stone fingers clawing at the air.
I stumbled back, my heart pounding. Only then did I realise she wasn’t alone. I was in a garden, but not the kind you wandered through during the day, with tea in hand and sunlight on your face. No. This place felt haunted, trapped.
It was surrounded by figures—stone sculptures—each one as lifelike as the next. Some caught in agony, some in defiance, others in surrender. Gooseflesh spread down my back as I moved through them, careful not to brush against their surfaces. A woman with antlers stood proud and tall. Another had her face hidden behind a stone veil. Her expression was unreadable, even with the veil cracked and jagged as if someone—or herself—had tried to tear it off.
The air felt heavy, as if they were watching me. A child curled against a wolf. Small dragons perched on crumbling columns. Fairies, tangled mid-flight, their wings chipped and delicate as ash.
But it was the women who unnerved me most. They stood in silent rows, dozens of them, each one from a different time, each one immortalized in stone. Their gowns told their stories—Victorian silks, Tudor collars, Grecian drapery—all weathered by time. Rain streaked their faces, darkening the cracks in their cheeks, making it look as if they were weeping.
Some of them were broken, their arms severed, torsos split clean in two. Their pieces lay scattered in the grass like fallen soldiers, abandoned on the field of some forgotten battle.
Preston walked a few paces ahead as we passed the statues, crumbling under the weight of time. Ivy curled up their stone skirts and outstretched limbs while moss clung to their ankles, thick as velvet bindings. And then, a familiar pale head of hair. Cecily.
She stood among them, still as death, her body rigid in the hush, as though she, too, had been sculpted and left to weather the years.
“Cecily?” Preston’s voice broke the silence, unusually gentle.
Her head snapped toward us with a sudden, jerking movement, her cheeks flushed, her hair damp and tangled, her pink nightgown clinging with mud and rain. Above us, the sky groaned and split, thunder cracking like a warning. Light spilled across the clearing in jagged streaks.
But Cecily didn’t answer. Her gaze dropped—slow, heavy, as though drawn by some unseen weight.
I followed the line of her eyes.
Bones. Scattered at her feet like shards of lightning caught in mid-strike. Pale against the earth, stark and terrible in their stillness.
“I was—” she muttered, as if trying to piece her memory back together. “I was sleepwalking again,” she said, in the brief hush before the thunder gathered its strength once more. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground. “I fell…”
Preston was at her side in an instant, his hands gentle as he lifted her from the shallow pool forming at her bare feet, slick with mud and rain. I stepped forward too, crouching beside the stones.
The bones were smaller than I’d feared, but no less unsettling. An animal. But how did they come to be here? I cast a hard glance around, but the clearing revealed nothing besides trees thick with shadow and the looming silhouette of the manor walls towering above. I looked back at the bones, as though I might compel them to speak, to whisper some echo of the moment before we arrived.
But they remained still.
Silent.
I rose and followed the Davenports. Cecily’s hands clenched her brother’s sweater like she feared she would somehow slip from his hold. Her pink gown was heavy with rain, her chest rising and falling fast, as if the fear that had gripped her out there still held her in its thrall, unwilling to let go.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ELODIE
