A woman slid into my vision. Her gown hung in limp folds, waterlogged, as if she’d just climbed out of the river. Dried lavender, small powder blue petals, and leaves scattered around her feet like they’d been thrown in a storm. Everywhere they landed, the tile seemed to frost over, a delicate rim of ice kissing the grout lines.
She didn’t blink, instead her eyes clouded, knowing. But that wasn’t what made the air freeze in my lungs. It was the fact that I could still see the bath behind her as if she wasn’t standing there at all.
“Who are you?” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure the words really left my lips.
Her mouth moved—once, twice—as though trying to form the right shape. When she finally spoke, the words came out like chalk on a broken board.
“I tried…need to…ired.” The lights flickered above us, and her face twisted like she was annoyed with herself.
A whisper of dried petals skittered across the tile.
“I don’t understand,” I breathed, my waist bumping against the sink. Her limbs shuddered, then jerked—a marionette caught on tangled strings. Something about the motion was wrong, too sudden, too sharp. She opened her mouth again, butall that left her was the desperate sound of trying to speak, the rasp of breath that had forgotten how.
Her lips moved in odd patterns, like a song unsung for centuries.
One word finally scraped out, cracked and raw. “Run.”
And then she was gone. The air pulled tight around me. The walls leaned in, like they couldn’t quite believe what I’d seen either. The silence pressed down like a second skin. But on the tile, where she had stood, something remained.
Dried lavender, small blue petals, and broken leaves. I stared at them for a moment too long, then backed out of the bathroom, my heart hammering like it wanted to run without me. But my mind was even louder. I’d just seen a ghost. Not my mum. Someone else. A woman who must have died a long time ago, judging from her appearance.
I locked the door behind me, the small brass key still cool between my fingers. I stood there, breathing slow and quiet, tearing the moment apart in my head.
“So this is how you spend your time.”
I twisted around, facing Preston who was leaning against one of the carved swans on the wooden pillar of my bed. His sleeves were rolled up his forearms, his shirt wrinkled. God only knew how long he’d been there.
“I won’t say I’m surprised,” he added, his arms crossing, his voice dripping with mockery. “Staring at closed doors suits you.”
My jaw locked. “What are you doing here?”
He clicked his tongue, tilting his head in that infuriatingly smug way of his. Then his eyes flicked down, caught by something below. I followed his gaze to the light brown frame holding the photo of me and my mum on the nightstand.
My stomach turned. I reached out quickly and laid the picture face down, shielding it from him.
“I found your mysterious Alexander,” Preston said at last, his voice sharp as always, though it was less edged. His gaze lingered on the spot where the photo had been. “But if you’re not interested—” He turned, tearing his eyes away as he moved toward the door.
“Wait.” The word broke out of me sharper than I intended.
He paused, his fingers brushing the doorknob. Then, without turning, he spoke over his shoulder.
“I thought you might.” The amusement in his voice pricked across my skin like static. When he turned, something flickered in his forest-green eyes as he pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. Without a word, he held it out. I hesitated, then took it.
My throat tightened like the swan on the wooden pillar with a flower forced down its throat as I unfolded the page. My stomach twisted into a cold knot. A death certificate.
Alexander Aldridge.The name sat at the top in heavy, black ink.
“He was one of Lilian’s business associates,” Preston said, dragging a hand through his blonde waves like he didn’t just drop another stone into the lake of my life.
Just like Hudson Lamont and Vitalie. They were all connected somehow. Not only to my mum, but to Lilian as well. To the Thornburys.
Aldridge.The name rang with a familiar edge in my mind.
Yellow pages…a tattered cover. I pushed off the bed, crossing the room with quick steps. My knees hit the floor as I pulled open the bottom drawer of the old dresser. TheTales of Thornhillrested there, tucked safely, between my sweaters. I dropped the book onto the mattress and flipped through the pages. My fingers knew where to go. It was one of the last stories in the book. I had found it by accident. My hand slowed.
There it was.
“The fourth family,” Preston said aloud, dropping into the chair beneath the arched window. He sat like it was a throne, like it belonged to him and no one else. Something green flashed between his fingers and my gaze snapped to my bare wrist.
