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Evaine found an old ladder and propped it against the side of the cottage. Carefully, she picked her way up to the roof. The tree that had fallen had knocked aside several shingles. One branch had pierced the rotted wood beneath, allowing water to stream into the cottage. With precarious effort, she was able to roll the tree off the house.

Back on the ground, she searched her pile of split logs until she found the flattest boards. A few solid strikes with the axe made them into rough-hewn planks. It was the best solution she could devise under the circumstances. She nailed them in place over the hole and put a piece of waxed canvas over the whole mess, weighting it down with stones.

Once that task was finished, she went back inside and found that Gran had managed to stir the fire and finish cooking the soup. Exhausted, Evaine plopped into her chair and ate.

“Will it hold?” Gran asked, eyeing the still-dripping ceiling.

“It should at least get us through the night. We can reevaluate in the morning.” Evaine heated a kettle of water for tea and washing. She wanted a bath. It had been a very long time since she had been able to soak in a tub full of hot water.

When Evaine went off to Girton to live in the dormitory there were only stand-up showers. The luxuriousness of a long, hot soak became a distant memory.

The instant her head hit the pillow, exhaustion claimed her. What felt like seconds later, Evaine was forced out of a deep slumber by someone shaking her shoulder.

“Evie. Evie, wake up. The roof is leaking again,” said Hazel.

Groggily, she sat up. There was water everywhere. Dismay sank into the marrow of her bones.

“Pack what you can carry. We’ll go to the main house,” said Evaine. Lord Lucan owed them a habitable residence.

Together they scurried around in the puddle of water that had become the cottage floor, moving their belongings to safety, packing a change of clothes and toiletries into a single rucksack. Evaine left behind her book on foraging and put all of their remaining food back into the hamper. She slung that onto her back with a makeshift strap crafted from a belt looped through the handle. Evaine cast a longing look at the pot sitting on the stove.

“Leave the soup. It will be fine until the morning.”

Evaine was reluctant to abandon any morsel of nourishment, but she bowed to necessity and they set off into the storm with their lone oil lamp in hand. That much, Gran could manage.

What she struggled with, however, was keeping her balance on the slippery path. Hazel clung to Evaine’s arm with desperate strength, pulling her off balance. Mud squished beneath the soles of her boots. At least beneath the canopy of trees, they were somewhat sheltered from the relentless drumbeat of rain.

“Do you hear that?” Gran’s fingers tightened painfully around her forearm. She twisted around, nearly pulling Evaine into the mud.

“What?” she said crossly.

“Someone is following us. I heard them breathing. Their footsteps are just a beat off of ours. Listen.”

Evaine strained her ears. Nothing. Only the distant hoot of an owl. Unsettled, she said, “Keep moving.”

Slowly, they picked their way along the forest path. After a few minutes, she did hear it. A squish-suck of heavy foot falls in mud punctuated by a low ragged inhalation. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled with alarm.

“Don’t look back,” she said.

Grim-faced, Hazel shuffled forward with sheer determination. The iron gates of Wolfhaven loomed ahead, flanked by the fearsome statues of canines long extinct from this isle. Evaine’s senses, heightened by fear, were trained on the thing that was trailing them. It did not come closer. Nor did it retreat.

They pushed through the gates. As soon as they were inside, Evaine turned and shoved the heavy bars together, latching them firmly. Bereft of the sheltering trees, rain quickly soaked through her woolen cloak’s hood.

She strained to hear any sign of their pursuer. Nothing. It seemed the gates had stopped whatever—or whoever—it was.

“Only a little farther now,” she said brightly.

“What if the door is locked?”

Evaine hadn’t considered that possibility. What if they had come all this way only to find they couldn’t get into the mansion? Despair tugged at her. Their boots crunched on wet gravel. At least the footing was firmer here. They passed the scraggly rose bushes dotted with red petals from withering blooms and around the overgrown fountain in the circular drive. What little water had pooled in the stone basin was dark and cloudy with algae. The light from the lantern turned it a sickly shade of green.

Behind them, a footstep crunched on crushed rock. She flinched. Her pulse leaped into a gallop.

“Quickly,” she gritted out, tugging her grandmother along. Gran wheezed with the effort of trying to keep up. The thick carved oak double doors that led into Wolfhaven’s foyer loomed ahead. Steps from safety, Evaine threw herself at the handle and depressed the level, pushing with all her might.

Stuck.

Locked.