Morning came as a dull grey smear through the high window.
I'd slept. Or passed out. Hard to tell the difference when your body isn't yours. Woke up with my jaw clenched so tight my molars ached, a tension headache blooming behind my eyes like a bad hangover. The futon smelled of sweat and whatever the previous occupant had been marinating in.
No tray this time. No woman with the flat voice. Just the door, unlocked, hanging open a crack.
Got up. The floor was cold against my bare feet. I stood there for a moment, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Just the creak of the house settling, a sound like old bones shifting.
I walked out.
The corridor was empty. Daylight filtered through paper screens, casting everything in a pale, watery light. I found my way back to the study corridor, then outside through a side door I'd noticed the day before. No one stopped me.
The courtyard was mud. Actual mud, churned up by cart wheels and feet, the consistency of cold miso. My borrowed sandals, left on a stone by the door, sank into it with a wet sucking sound. A cart waited near the gate. Wooden wheels, a canvas cover, a single horse hitched to it. The horse was grey, its coat patchy, its head hanging low. It looked as tired as I felt.
A man stood by the horse. Not the stone-faced guard from yesterday. Someone older, his spine curved, his hands gnarled around a lead rope. He wore a patched coat and a hat that had been rained on one too many times. He didn't look at me. Just spat on the ground and nodded toward the back of the cart.
"In."
I climbed up. The cart bed was rough wood, scattered with straw that had gone musty. A single sack sat in the corner, tied with twine. My luggage, apparently. I sat on the wood, my back against the side. The straw pricked through my trousers.
The old man untied the horse, climbed onto the front bench, and clicked his tongue. The horse leaned into the harness. The cart lurched forward with a sound like a dying cat.
We passed through the gate. No one saw us off. No one waved. The gate closed behind us with a dull thud, and then we were on a road of packed dirt, heading toward the tree line.
***
The first hour, I watched the estate shrink behind us. A wall of grey stone, a few rooftops, then nothing but the green-black wall of the forest. The road was a scar cut through it, rutted, overgrown at the edges. Branches reached out like skeletal fingers, scraping the canvas cover.
The second hour, I stopped watching.
The cart bounced. Each rut sent a shock up my spine, rattling my teeth. I tried shifting positions. Leaned against the side. Lay down on the straw. Sat cross-legged. Everything was uncomfortable. The wood was rough, splinters waiting to happen. The straw had something in it, mouse droppings, maybe, that made my nose itch.
I opened the sack. A change of clothes. Same coarse linen, same too-short trousers. A small pouch of coins that clinked dully when I hefted it. A flint. A knife, the blade cheap and nicked. No food.
Closed it back up.
The old man hadn't spoken a word since we left. I watched the back of his head, the way his hat bobbed with each jolt of the cart. After a while, I leaned forward.
"How far?"
He didn't turn. "Far."
Waited. He didn't elaborate.
I sat back. The forest pressed in on both sides. The light shifted, filtering through the canopy in patches. One moment I was in shadow, the next a shaft of sunlight hit me square in the face, hot and sudden. Then shadow again.
A fly found me. Buzzed around my face, landed on my arm. I watched it clean its legs. It was fat, glossy, the color of old pennies. It took off, circled, landed again. I let it.
We stopped twice. Once for the horse to drink from a stream. The water was brown, slow-moving, leaves floating on the surface. The old man cupped his hands and drank. I did the same. It tasted of earth and cold.
The second stop was for nothing. The horse just stopped. Stood there in the middle of the road, head down. The old man sat on the bench, not moving. I waited. After five minutes, the horse started walking again. No explanation.
I stopped asking questions.
***
The sky was the color of a dirty dishrag when we finally arrived.
The forest had thinned, then given way to open land. Fields, but not the neat, cultivated fields you'd expect. These were patches of wild grass, weeds, the occasional twisted tree. Stone walls crumbled in places, overgrown with brambles. A few buildings in the distance, roofs caved in. The road became a path, then a track, then just two ruts in the grass.
The manor appeared out of the twilight like a bad memory.
It was a house. That's the most generous thing I can say. A two-story structure of dark timber and white plaster, but the plaster was stained, streaked with rust-colored marks from the iron fittings. The roof sagged in the middle, tiles missing like teeth. One window on the upper floor was boarded over. The front door was a slab of wood that had warped in its frame, leaving a gap at the top big enough to put my fist through.
The cart stopped. The old man climbed down with a grunt, his joints cracking. He untied the horse and led it toward what might have been a stable once. The door hung open, darkness inside.
I climbed down. My legs were numb. Pins and needles shot up from my ankles. I stood in the grass, knee-high, wet with dew, and looked at the house.
No light. No smoke from the chimney. No sound.
The old man came back, leading the horse into a paddock that was mostly mud and thistle. He pulled a rope across the gap, then walked back toward the cart without looking at me.
"That's it?"
He unhitched the cart. The shafts dropped to the ground with a thump. He picked up a small bag from the bench, his own, I assumed, and slung it over his shoulder.
"You'll be wanting the key," he said. First full sentence he'd spoken all day. His voice was a rasp, like stones grinding together. He reached into his coat and produced a key. Iron. Big. The kind of key that opens a door you don't want to go through.
He held it out. I took it. The metal was cold, rough with rust.
"Servants?"
He was already walking away, toward a small hut I hadn't noticed, half-hidden by a willow tree. A curl of smoke rose from its chimney. So there was at least one fire in this place.
He stopped. Didn't turn around.
"There was," he said. Then he kept walking.
I stood there. The key sat in my palm. The house loomed in front of me, dark against a sky that was losing its color fast. Somewhere in the field behind me, an insect started up. A rhythmic chirring, loud in the silence.
Walked to the door. The wood was damp, the grain raised. The lock was a heavy iron plate, crusted with rust. I pushed the key in. It stuck halfway. I jiggled it. Nothing. Put my shoulder into it. The lock groaned, a deep, reluctant sound, and then the key turned with a snap that echoed in my hand.
Pushed the door open.
The smell hit me first. Not rot. Something older. Cold ash, damp stone, and the faint, sweet-sour smell of a place that hasn't been lived in for a long time. A house exhaling.
I stepped inside.
Dark. Couldn't see my hand in front of my face. The floor was stone, uneven. I took a step, then another. My foot hit something, a bucket?, and it skittered across the floor, the sound too loud, bouncing off walls I couldn't see.
Stopped. Listened.
Nothing. Just the echo dying, then the slow drip of water somewhere. Drip. Pause. Drip.
I had the flint in the sack. The sack was still in the cart.
Stood there in the dark for a full minute. Let my eyes adjust. Slowly, shapes emerged. A room. Large. A hearth on the far wall, black with old soot. A table, overturned, one leg missing. A staircase to my right, the steps disappearing into shadow.
The air was cold. Colder than outside. It had a weight to it, pressing against my skin, raising the hairs on my arms.
I went back outside. The twilight was almost gone, just a strip of orange on the horizon. The cart was where we'd left it. I grabbed the sack, slung it over my shoulder. Looked at the stable. The old man's hut. The smoke from his chimney was thin now, almost invisible against the darkening sky.
He wasn't coming to help. That was clear.
Went back inside. Left the door open behind me for the light. Found the hearth. Crouched down. There was ash, cold and fine, coating the stones. A few chunks of charcoal. Some kindling, but it was damp, soft with moisture.
Took out the flint. Struck it. A spark, brief and orange, dying before it touched anything. Struck again. Another spark. My fingers were cold, clumsy.
Third try. A spark caught on a sliver of wood. A tiny flame, no bigger than a fingernail. I cupped my hands around it, blowing gently. The flame wavered, steadied. I fed it more kindling, piece by piece, watching it grow. The wood hissed, steaming as the moisture cooked out. The smoke curled up into the darkness above.
Sat back on my heels. The fire was small but alive. It pushed the dark back a few feet, lit the nearest wall. The plaster was cracked, a web of fissures spreading from the hearth. Something had been painted there once. A pattern, maybe. Too faded to tell.
I looked around.
The room was a shell. A few broken chairs, a chest with its lid hanging off, the overturned table. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling beams, thick as curtains. And on the far wall, near the staircase, a smear of something dark. Old. Dried into the plaster, impossible to scrub out.
I stared at it. The firelight made it pulse, just slightly, like it was breathing.
Turned back to the fire. Added more wood. The flames crackled, popped, sent a shower of sparks up into the dark. The smell of burning wood began to push back the damp, but not entirely. There was something underneath it. A smell I couldn't name. Like old bones. Like something that had been left to sit.
The key was still in my hand. I didn't remember holding onto it. The metal had warmed to my skin.
I put it down on the stone next to me. The sound it made was small. Final.
Outside, the last light died. The fire was the only thing left.
I sat there, back against the hearth wall, watching the flames. The house creaked around me, settling into its bones. Drip. Pause. Drip.
The sack sat beside me. The knife was in it. I didn't reach for it.
Just sat. Let the heat seep into my shoulders. Let the dark stay where it was.
Above me, on the second floor, something shifted. Not loud. Just the suggestion of weight on old floorboards. A soft, deliberate pressure.
I looked up at the ceiling.
Nothing moved. The firelight flickered, threw shadows across the beams.
I didn't call out. Didn't move.
Just listened.
The silence pressed back. Heavy. Waiting.