Leena recognized her immediately—the vacant eyes, the dripping clothes, the long wet hair.
Lord Hargreaves’s wife.
Leena could not believe that the ghost had found her so soon, before she had even stepped foot onto Weavingshaw land. Leena’s eyes swerved to the dim outline of the clock and saw the hand strike midnight. Abruptly, the ghost’s outline seemed firmer, a trace of color bleeding through her skin.
The lady beckoned for Leena to follow her away from the warmth of the inn and into the dark night already thick with the prowling of wolves. Leena stood up and shook her head, well aware that she was not yet ready for this meeting.
But the ghost was very insistent, her eyes no longer vacant but flashing with rage.
“No,” Leena ground out with frustration. “Go.Away.”
Her anger seemed to trigger the phantom. She grew larger, rage twisting her blue-tinged lips until she towered over Leena. Her hands tried to grasp Leena’s clothes, her anger so potent that Leena felt it like a shock on her skin.
“Stop!” Leena yelled, tasting something metallic in her mouth. “You don’t have power over me. Don’t forget that only I can see you. If I close my eyes, you cease to exist!”
The phantom halted, sudden terror in her eyes.
Leena’s hand snatched her copper coins but let them go after a moment’s deliberation.
She could not shake the sudden fear that this might be her one and only chance to learn valuable information she could trade with St. Silas, who clearly had a vested interest in this particular ghost.
“If I follow you, will you leave me alone?” Leena asked slowly.
The drowned ghost’s eyes widened, and she nodded.
Cursing to herself, Leena put on her cloak. Although creeping outside in the night—especiallyin a town with insurrection on its mind—frightened her beyond measure, instinct propelled her onward. There was something here to be uncovered, she was sure ofit.
The inn’s halls were quiet, save for a rhythmic snoring from inside one of the rooms. She took a kerosene lamp, providing just enough light to see the ghost in front of her. The stairs creaked beneath her boots, but all the armchairs in the parlor were vacant, and the reception desk was empty. On the desk was a vase filled with the violet blooms of Deathgrips. She allowed herself only a brief moment to wonder if this was a northern tradition, to put Deathgrips by the window to keep away wolves, before she grabbed a handful of stems and stowed them in her pockets. She followed the ghost outside, clutching her cloak tighter against the bite of the wind.
It was her first time following a phantom into the barren expanseof the countryside without street lamps or tall buildings to shelter her. Apprehension slithered down her spine, raising goosebumps.
A smooth voice slashed through the darkness. “Fancy a midnight walk?”
Leena froze on the porch steps before swinging her lamp around to find St. Silas making his way back to the inn. She peered closely at him, trying to settle the pulse pounding in her neck. He was in an unexpected state of disarray—mud caking his boots, shirt loosened to the collarbones, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and hands covered in dirt.
“Have you been burying a body in the woods?” she asked, and then instantly cringed even as the jest left her mouth.
He seemed to be in an unusual mood, his eyes bright in the darkness. He ignored the question. “Meeting yourspecial friend,Leena?”
The way he said her name made her shiver, and she remembered the force of his gaze when he’d asked her to call him Bram. That sort of informality unnerved her.
Ahead of her, Lady Hargreaves had continued on, so intent on her destination that she hadn’t turned back to see that Leena had lagged behind.
She rushed to catch up, calling behind her to St. Silas, repeating what she’d said the last time he’d caught her sneaking out at midnight. “I didn’t give you leave to call me by my given name!”
Silence.
Then the sound of St. Silas’s footsteps followed her. “Where are you going at this time of night?”
“Perhaps I’m going to see the miners.” Leena kept an eye on the ghost who walked ahead of her. “Reassure them that, whileweare not nobles, they’d still be very welcome to take you.”
“The town is the opposite way,” he replied drily.
She repressed an exasperated laugh. He was never short of answers.
They approached the dense cluster of trees that St. Silas had told her marked the border of Weavingshaw; Leena hesitated on theedge. The woods were dark, her lamp illuminating only a small area while the rest of the world was hidden, cloaked in a thin mist rising from the ground. Her pockets full of Deathgrips were needless, for the forest was filled with their thick aroma, and even in the darkness their petals were luminescent.
Sensing her hesitation, St. Silas halted beside her. She could feel the warmth of his body next to hers, so at odds with the ghost’s chill.
