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The House shivers as it recalls her screams. Luda Marija, people called her, after Jadran’s death. But she was never mad. The false title makes the walls slouch in shame.

History cannot repeat itself. It needs Petra to be happy. It needs her to stay.

Ungrateful people. How dare they tarnish our good name. Defile its door with that horrid fish. Have they already forgotten what this House has done for them? This island was quiet and desolate before Marko planted his field, bringing color and fortune and fame. The House remembers how drab and poor their lives were. How much they slathered their bodies in Klarin oil, hoping to find romance as he had done. How they used to titter in excitement in the lead-up to the Lavanda Gala every summer, their disdain suddenly dismissed.

The Lavanda Gala.

The bright melody of a mandolin vibrates up from the basement, a memory from days long past. The curtains swish along, while glasses clink within dark cupboards. Yes, that is an idea.

Perhaps, the House muses, all the people need to forget their scorn is a little music to dance to.

Eighteen

Petra

June 2026

I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to rise, but my body refuses to listen. It is weary and stiff from yet another sleepless night.

Three days have passed since the confrontation with Davor. Even though I haven’t had any nightmares since the vision in the bath, I’ve felt the mora’s presence in my room each night, hovering beyond the canopy. As if to remind me she is there. That I’m cursed.

Luka and I are not in love. I’ve repeated the phrase again and again, trying to convince myself that my nightmare wasn’t any sort of prophecy. If the mora wants revenge, she can find it elsewhere. But then again, does it matter what I think? She’s clearly a monster—who knows what twisted rules she plays by. Part of the dream didn’t even make sense—like, why did I see Marko Klarin on the pier? The same questions have tormented me for days, my mind bouncing between doubt and fear in a torturous loop.

A harsh beam of sunlight slices through the parting of the canopy, breaking me from my thoughts. Wincing with soreness, I raise my arm to block it. I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here, drifting in and out of sleep.

Get up. The voice rumbles through me, low and gravelly.

Am I dreaming? I don’t think so—the rest of my room seems normal, if a little too bright.

I reach for my phone to check the time. 11:45 a.m. Every morning, I sleep in later and later, catching up on lost sleep, but this is the worst.

My heart stills as I notice a new message from Luka. He’s been texting every day, asking to see me, but I’ve made up excuses every time. A part of me is still upset that he didn’t tell me about the islanders’ accusations sooner.

But another part—the bigger part—is scared. I never told him about the woman who haunts me every night. If he knew what I saw in my dreams, would he still be so sure the mora is bullshit? Would he still want to be around me?

I put the phone down, choosing to ignore him. He’ll stop reaching out eventually, like all the other guys I abandoned. The thought hurts, but if I truly am cursed, it’s better I protect him this way.

I lumber to the bathroom to shower. On my way down the hall, the floorboards creak behind me. It’s been several days since I heard the sound. I spin around, scanning the hall. Of course, she isn’t there.

As I meet the gaze of a painted angel on the wall, her eyes go black and her gentle smile slowly sharpens into a sinister leer. Blood drips down her gown.

I hurry into the bathroom, shutting the door quickly behind me.

My breath catches at my reflection in the mirror. Faint purple bruises are blooming beneath my eyes. The same thing had happened to my mom, according to Davor. Haunted, he called her.

Mad.

Is that what’s happening to me?

I splash water in my face to drown out the thought.

When I eventually head down to the kitchen, Karmela greets me with a wary voice. “You’re finally awake.” Even Rex looks perturbed, peering at me with a tilted head from his bed in the corner.

“Sorry for sleeping late,” I murmur, sitting down at the table.

“How are you?” she asks, pouring me a cup of Turkish coffee. I know she’s been worried, her low chanting prayers filling the house both morning and evening. An irksome reminder of my dream.

“Good,” I reply, doing my best to sound normal, fine. I’ve been too afraid to tell her what happened with Davor or in the bath, but she must suspect something is up.