I couldn’t see the woman’s face, but I could hear her sigh. “I tell you, it’s back. Eight of my sheep went missing in the last three months. And what did the Monster eat in all those stories, Maisie?”
“Sheep and kids,” the other, Maisie, said, still audibly not convinced.
A log popped loudly in the hearth of the fire, sending a small shiver down my spine. I glanced toward the window, catching the black press of night and my own faint reflection in the glass.
For a second, I had the strange feeling that something was staring back.
Then, three steaming mugs landed on our table, and I blinked. The sensation vanished. I curled my fingers around the warm glass and inhaled the scent of honey and clove. Did this woman really believe those stories I read as well? Her friend was clearly right, there are no such things as Monsters.
But…I couldn’t help but think of the animal bones scattered in the garden. Of the ghost of my mum, and the strange woman in my bathroom. I shouldn’t have seen them either, and yet, I did.
Cecily raised her cup. “Let’s drink,” she said. “To nights like this, and to hot toddies.”
Myra snorted, but joined her sister, and so did I.
“To hot toddies,” we said in unison, then took a sip of the drink. It was hot and rich, sweeter than I expected, like early autumn was trying to claw its way into winter.
Warmth spread across my chest, and after so long my head emptied, even if only momentarily.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ELODIE
Ijolted at the sound that scattered the room, my head twisting in the fireplace’s direction. The fire had gone out, leaving only a faint glow from the dying embers that painted the walls in soft orange. The air had turned cold. Not the usual drafty kind, but a biting stillness that pressed into my skin and seemed to hush everything else.
Almost a week had passed since I visitedThe Grey Maidenwith the twins, and nothing unusual had happened since then. But now, as I glanced at theTales of Thornhill, I stilled. It lay open at the foot of the bed, its pages turning on their own, until they suddenly froze, as if caught mid-thought. I pushed up from the window seat where I was curled with theGreatest Works of Edgar Allan Poe, when I saw her.
Still. Silent. Watching…
The ghost from the bathroom.
Her gown was the same, clinging to her bones like river silk. Her hair matted to one side, strands streaked with grey, and her skin looked faded, like paper left too long in the sun. But her eyes—her eyes watched, alive and gleaming.
Dried lavender, powder blue petals, and leaves circled her bare feet, just like last time, scattered like they were carried by a storm. Wherever they touched the floor, a light frost bloomed, spidering out in delicate, impossible patterns. I could see my breath in the air.
She didn’t touch the book, but she glared at it and something told me I should look too. The tale painted on the paper was one I recognized.
The Tale of the Great Monster’s Return
The woman looked at me, her mouth moving, but no sound came. Only the shape of words I couldn’t catch. A whisper half-snatched by time. Then, one word—barely more than a breath—rasped from her throat, cracked and threadbare.
“Here.”
Her figure trembled, flickering tiredly at the edges like a candle about to gutter out. And just like that, she was gone. The frost lingered a second longer, then faded. The leaves stilled, and the room turned quiet.
I stared at the page. This time the warning was unignorable, and something told me I needed to find the book my mum spoke about, before it was too late.
The stairs creakedbeneath my boots as I made my way down to the ground floor. The manor was oddly still, as if it was still asleep or holding its breath. I stepped out into the morning chill. Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun tried and failed to break through.
Here, she had said. But what did she mean? Here in the book? Orhere, as inthe manor?
The cold snapped against my skin, dry and biting, and I pulled my coat tighter around me. The gravel path glistened with frost, crunching beneath my steps as I crossed toward the greenhouse.
I hadn’t made it far when I heard footsteps.
From the opposite path, a figure came into view. I slowed, and so did he.
Hudson Lamont.
