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Kaitlin came prepared, journals and copies stacked neatly. “The originals are too fragile,” she said, and spread the packet on the table. “We’ll use the copies and transcriptions.”

Rhiannon settled back against the cushions. “Then tell me everything.”

Kaitlin began at the start. She read excerpts from Verity’s letters, her journals, and told the story about the captain’s violent return from presumed death in a shipwreck and Verity’s confession to killing her husband in self-defense. Rhiannon listened without surprise. When Kaitlin paused, uncertain, Amy spoke. “You already knew?”

Rhiannon’s eyes reflected the firelight. “Not the details. When I came before, the echoes were calm. But the renovations stirred them—you broke the wards Verity had placed.” She sipped her tea slowly. “I believe the two of them are stuck in a loop, replaying over the same emotions, unable to break free. Verity has attached herself to you, not in a possessive way, but it seems more like an alignment. Protector meeting protector of the house and its mission.”

Amy said nothing. The crackle of the fire filled the space instead.

“You felt her, didn’t you, Amy, when you first stepped foot on the grounds? Tell me about that,” Rhiannon instructed.

She hesitated, Sully’s skepticism at the back of her mind. But Rhiannon’s words were true. “It felt like home. Like I belonged here.”

Rhiannon smiled and reached out to pat her hand. “You’re sensitive to the environment, and to spirits. Some people are; they just are more responsive to their surroundings.”

Amy and Kaitlin exchanged a glance.

“What about the shadow outside?” Kaitlin asked. “That’s him, isn’t it? The Captain?”

“I believe it is. Confused and stuck between who he had been and what he became.” Rhiannon shifted herself on the pillows. “History could tell you what changed him. Exposure to poison, sickness, starvation—all could twist a mind. He came home someone else, and she defended herself.” Her tone wasn’t judgment, only fact.

Kaitlin sighed. “Well, it wasn’t unheard of. People presumed lost and then found washed up somewhere, nursed back to health before ‘returning’. So, that part is entirely possible. No phones, internet, radio or TV back then to let loved ones know they survived. Mail was unreliable at best, and very, very slow. As for his changed mental state, there were a lot of things back then that could have caused toxicity-driven madness. A simple infection, lead poisoning—cups and eating utensils were made of lead, even canned food. Syphilis and scurvy were also possibilities, as well as exposure to other heavy metals like mercury or arsenic. The forensics proved he was toxic.”

“So, not uncommon or out of the possibilities that Captain Blackwell realistically returned out of his mind, and when he saw she was pregnant, he attacked her, then was killed in self-defense by his wife and a carpenter?” Rhiannon asked.

The silence that followed felt heavier than disapproval, like sympathy too old to express.

Rhiannon turned her gaze to Amy again. “And Sully—he knows he’s bound to them?”

Amy exchanged a glance with Kaitlin before confirming what they had learned of his lineage. Rhiannon nodded once, as if a piece had clicked into place.

Kaitlin hesitated, then unfolded a single extra sheet. From the folds, Amy could tell Kaitlin had read and re-read this copy. “I found this adhered to the leather binding,” she said. “It’s her final page.”

She cleared her throat and read:

My darling,

It has been a year since you left us. Each day I bear the weight of that night. Your happy return, then the sudden fury. My beautiful husband replaced by a stranger’s rage. I knew still it was you beneath that mask, but now you lie in the garden, and to the world you are lost in the sea. My heart knows better, for it’s by my hand you are dead.

My doors and windows are sealed against the monster’s return, yet my soul waits for the man I loved. I pray you will one day forgive me, and that when my time comes we shall meet again as we once were and remember only the happiness we once shared.

When she finished, the room went hollow with quiet. Fire cracked, wind pressed gently at the windows, and the three women sat suspended in the lull.

“They’re still here,” Rhiannon said at last. Her voice was softly reverent. “He waits at the door; she shields herself in the house. Both are still searching for the other, far too uncertain to let go and move on from the earthly plane.” She looked to Amy. “Tomorrow night, you’ll read that passage again. We’ll help them cross over together.”

Amy’s gaze stayed on the pages spread across the table—the blurred ink, the uneven script. Outside, the sea breeze had subsided completely.

The following day was filled with storms coming in from out at sea.

By dusk, a bruised storm pressed against the coastline, flashes of lightning turning the windows to quicksilver. The sea moaned below the cliffs, pulling and sighing like something caught between waking and sleep.

Inside, Rhiannon’s candles burned at even intervals, steady islands of gold in the restless dark. She had arranged them not for theatrics but for balance, “so the shadows don’t outweigh the light.”

The scent of wax and lavender mixed with salt and the tang of drying paint.

Amy stood nearest the hearth, tracing the worn edge of Verity Blackwell’s journal. Kaitlin had acquiesced to allow them the original copies for the seance, facilitating a deeper connection to Verity. Each glyph of the woman’s handwriting had become so familiar she could almost hear the voice behind it. Tonight, that voice might finally answer.

Kaitlin stacked annotated copies beside the long table. “I still can’t get over her confession,” she whispered. “It’s so tragic—so romantic.”