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Millie and the horse turn and look at the well. “It’s not water. Those are your memories, Josephine.”

“What?” Jo whips around and leans over the edge, trying to see through the murkiness.

“If you look long enough, you’ll remember.”

Jo straightens, rolls her shoulders, and narrows her eyes at the girl. “What if I don’t want to remember?”

Millie shrugs. “If you want answers, you must remember. Answers are earned.”

The horse snorts.

“You’re here because you want something,” Millie says with a shadow in her eyes. The ghost of some unspoken emotion.

“Why did you call for me?” Finally the question she came here to ask.

The horse puffs with exasperation.

Millie smooths her skirt, touches the white rose in her hair. “I need you, Josephine. You’re the only one who can help me. And I’m the only one who can help you.”

“I don’t understand.”

Millie doesn’t reply right away. She just lets Jo stand there, by the well, hands on her hips. The silence stretches long enough for curiosity to slip into Jo’s mind. How can the dead girl help her? Millie doesn’t know anything about Jo, her life, and her sorrow. Jo doesn’t need help. She needs answers. Peace.

“You will. Eventually.” The girl’s voice has a gentle cadence, as if she’s talking to a child.

“How can I help you?”

Millie points at the well. “Look inside. You must remember.” She shifts in her seat, drops the reins, and puts her hands in her lap. “We’ll wait.”

“We?”

“Horace and me.”

Jo looks at the horse. The horse looks at her, big brown eyes unblinking.

“His name’s Horace.” Millie sighs with a tinge of annoyance, as if she’s disappointed Jo isn’t catching up with her fast enough. “He’s the master of the courtyard. He has all the answers. He knows everything.”

The Master. The one who grants wishes.

Look into the well, the whisper in Jo’s head commands. Horace snorts again.

There is nothing in that well that Jo wants or needs to see. “I don’t want to remember, Millie.” Her memories are full of shame, agony, and heartbreak. She rubs her forehead with the back of her right hand. “What’s the point of me remembering? Can’t we just talk?”

Millie rolls her eyes. Horace stamps angrily. The ground shakes. Fire bursts from the horse’s eyes, and Jo takes a step back from the wagon. Ironically, closer to the well.

Millie raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to look inside or not?”

The horse neighs, and a warm puff of air washes over Jo’s cheeks. The small hairs on Jo’s arms prickle.

“And if I don’t?”

Horace clops his strong-like-pillars legs on the ground. A few cobblestones crack. His lips peel away, and the snort that comes out sounds more like a roar.

Millie sighs. “Please, look. This is your penance.” Millie glances between Jo and Horace. “I can’t tell you anything else until you look.”

Jo hesitates. Penance. She deserves it, even though she doesn’t want to remember, and yet there is a small part of her that needs answers. That hopes to find a semblance of peace. After all, how bad can a walk down memory lane be? She should be able to control where the well takes her. It’s her own mind that makes her remember, isn’t it? She takes a step forward, and something else, something beneath her thoughts, pokes at her.

Answers are earned. A warning or a feeling—Jo’s not sure what it is, exactly. Like an oily worm, it slithers in the back of her mind. As soon as she reaches out to try and grasp it, it snakes away.