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Jo smiles and doesn’t answer.

“And what about Horace?”

Jo shakes her head and looks at the horse. “I don’t know. I cannot explain him.”

“We’re real, Josephine,” Millie says, her voice suddenly low and solemn. “You didn’t create the courtyard. It invited you in. The door was opened for you. You chose this journey.”

Jo is chilled to her core. The alleys creep closer. The cobblestones under her bare feet get sharper. The world is closing in around her. Even the air is getting heavier with every breath she takes. “I don’t want to be here.” Why did she come here? To chase after her nightmares? If anything, her old and forgotten nightmares are chasing after her.

Millie rolls her eyes. Then she sighs—a long and exaggerated inhale followed by a long and slow exhale. “You’re where you’re meant to be, Josephine.”

A loud knock makes them both jump. Horace looks up into the sky, as if the sound is coming from above. The crows appear and silently circle around them.

“We’re out of time,” Millie says, and when Jo glances at her, the girl looks almost transparent. Made of thin parchment. She grips Jo’s hand with a strength Jo wasn’t expecting from a specter. “We’re not done. Find my killer. And I promise I’ll help you too.” Another deafening knock. The horse looks at Millie, and the girl gets to her feet. Straightens her dress. “It’s Finn, in case you’re wondering.” Millie removes the white rose from her hair and pushes it into Jo’s hand. “Take this.”

Jo’s already sensing the pull of her world. With each knock, the courtyard loses its sharpness, the smog rolls in, and the shadows snake out of the well.

“Finn’s about to break your door down. You better hurry.” And with those words, Millie climbs back into the wagon and vanishes into one of the alleys, leaving Jo standing still, listening to the thunderous pounding of a fist on her front door.

Jo closes her eyes and lets a stream of air push her away from the warmth of the courtyard and into the dimness of her bedroom. She reminds herself that the courtyard is just a place she created with her broken mind and acquiesced power. Only because an old, dead man promised her something she had spent a long time wishing for. Perhaps she can create a new place where she won’t be bothered by anyone else. A place where she doesn’t have to question what is real and what is not.

But what about the old man who promised her salvation?

The White Rose

The gray daylight streams through a small window when Jo opens her eyes. It’s not bright, but it’s still too strong, and it pulsates behind her eyeballs like something alive. Like crows, the specks of black, who followed her from the courtyard.

She rolls off the bed, wincing at every strike at the front door. Her small apartment seems to vibrate as if the earth is quaking. It does sound like it might be Finn. There is a special cadence to his knocking—three knocks in rapid succession followed by two slow ones. And the lad doesn’t know when to stop, when to pause, when to take a breath. He saw her just a couple hours ago. What could he possibly need from her at this early hour?

On her way down the creaky wooden staircase, she catches a glimpse of her face in the mirror and startles, grasping the banister. She leans closer. Is it really her? Her wide-set eyes burn with fever. Her face is gaunt, completely drained of color, and her prominent cheekbones jut out like weapons. Her lips are dry and cracked. She isn’t even sure she has a solid form. She’s a shadow of her former self, a ghost from the courtyard.

“Jo,” Finn’s voice roars from behind the door. “Open the fucking door. I can hear you.”

She tucks an unruly curl behind her ear and turns the locks. The air outside is sharp with chill, without the slightest breeze. She can almost taste the crispness of the air on her tongue, the bite of fall settling on her skin, waking her up. She inhales deeply, savoring the freshness of the morning in the city.

The first thing she sees are his eyes. Blazing blue. The threat of something inexplicable. His square jaw is tightly clenched. He stares at her with such intensity, she wonders if he’s daring her to confront him. To say something unpleasant to justify his rudeness.

She drops her shoulders. “Finn, what do you think you’re doing?” Her voice is tired. Her words are slow. The mist in her head is a living thing. It cloaks her thoughts, making it difficult to focus. “What’s with all this ruckus?”

He takes a few determined steps forward, past her, forcefully inserting himself inside the hallway. Nostrils flaring, Finn looks at her messy hair and her rumpled skirt and raises a brow. He cracks his knuckles, and Jo winces at the unpleasant sound. Takes a step back, her core clenching with ice. A memory, sharp with pain, tries to break through the fog in her mind, but Jo pushes it aside.

“What the hell happened to you?” The coolness in his voice sends Jo’s pulse into a race. “You’re wearing the same clothes.” An air of bemusement surrounds him, but mostly it’s just anger. And a lot of it.

Her stomach roils. Angry men are prone to violence. “Nothing happened. All is well,” she says and massages her temples. She has a headache. The steady throbbing is not just unfortunate, it makes it difficult to focus. “Why are you here so early in the morning?”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” he growls, moving closer.

Her throat is suddenly on fire. Why can’t she remember where she put August’s pistol? She must keep it by the door. “I’m sorry,” she croaks. She clears her throat, but it doesn’t help much. “I must’ve overslept.” She needs to calm him down. Say something soothing, but nothing comes to her opium-riddled mind. So instead she asks, “Is there something you need?”

“Pictures.” Another growl. “I need Millie’s pictures as you promised.” Everything about him is different from the sad, mourning Finn she met hours ago. His voice is deeper. His stance is wide and threatening. He seems older somehow.

“It’s just been a few hours, Finn. I need more time than that. Developing photographs takes time.”

“It’s been two days, Jo.”

Two? He must be joking. She pokes at her thoughts, tries to figure out why he said it’s been two days. But no plausible explanation comes up.

“Why are you so angry?” she asks instead, deciding to ignore his odd comment.