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Heart pounding, I suck in a trembling breath. Hold it. It’s happening again. When I exhale, the canopy flutters, as if the presence is doing the same.

A hand slips through the fabric.

Locked in place, I watch in terror as it reaches for me. More of its body follows. A dark arm, then a torso. But its figure isn’t fully solid, only a smoky mass resembling a person. The bed creaks and shifts as it floats over my feet, my legs, hovering over my chest. Though the features on its face are nebulous, a curtain of long, dark wisps fans down around me, like hair.

A hole stretches above me as it takes a deep, ragged breath.

Panic thrashes throughout my body, commanding me to act—scream, push it away, run! And yet I remain limp, mattress groaning as I am pressed down. With each hoarse gasp it takes, my own lungs constrict tighter. I fight for air, but my mind goes fuzzy at the edges. I’m going to pass out any moment.

Faintly, I register a steady clacking sound. Nails against wood. Rex. As he enters the room, the presence dissipates. The mattress rises, and like a tide of warmth slowly rippling over me, my body unfreezes. I shoot up into a sitting position, panting.

When I pull back the canopy, I find Rex diligently sniffing the foot of my bed, moonlight glinting off his collar. Gratefulness surges through me. Maybe he isn’t so bad after all. I relax a little as he searches the room, though nothing’s there.

Peeling away my sheets, I tiptoe to the bathroom, Rex following behind. There I splash water over my face, wishing I could wash away the strange experience. In the mirror, my skin looks paler than usual, causing my freckles to pop like a stark splatter of paint.

I try to recall the details of my dream. The man from the past who spat at my feet. My long skirt. The wound slashed through my middle, the way my blood surged out without restraint. I brush my hand across my stomach, comforted by the smooth stretch of skin.

But when I step back into the dark hall, dread instantly overtakes me.

Something—or someone—is standing at the other end. There’s not enough light to make out the figure fully, but I swear I see the curve of hunched shoulders, inky tendrils of long hair. Beside me, Rex lets out a deep growl.

One of the bedroom doors flies open. The hall floods with light.

“Everything alright?” Karmela asks, worry creasing her face.

The presence is gone.

I blink at the empty spot, then at Karmela. She looks ghostlike in the brightness, wearing a white nightgown that floats ethereally about her bare feet. “Yeah. Just . . . bathroom,” I say simply, giving my head a firm shake. The dream must be messing with my mind.

She gives me a hesitant nod, then calls Rex, who gives the hall one more wary glance before disappearing into her room.

Interlude

Impostor.

The House shudders every time she speaks. This girl who looks like Marija yet is not.

All this time, the House prayed for her return. But it did not mean like this. Hasn’t this home been betrayed enough? How can this girl, with her broken tongue, be her daughter? A descendant of Marko Klarin? She didn’t even know who he was. The House deserves better—a true Croatian who knows her history. Honors it.

Not only that, she brought the Nightmare back. The House thought the leech was gone for good, for she withered away once Marija left, but it was wrong. How it despises the grit of her dirty feet on its smooth floors, the way she stalks about as if this place belongs to her. Hasn’t she had enough heartache and grief?

The House turns away. It will not have it. It would rather lie empty, crumbling into ruin, than accept this broken girl as its future. It would rather be abandoned.

Abandoned. The word creeps up its stone spine like a horde of cicadas. More and more homes around the island stand like shriveled husks, their owners off to chase petty dreams in far-off lands. It watches mournfully as they slowly decay, back to the earth whence they came, until no one even remembers the beautiful shapes they once held. It bothers the House more than it would like, how cruelly their inhabitants forgot their roots.

That fate must be avoided at all costs. For what is a house, but rubble and stone, without a family inside?

A moment passes. Two. And then the House tilts its head, ever so slightly, to peek over its shoulder at the girl.

Five

Magdalena

15 June 1895

All night I couldn’t sleep. With every crash of the sea in the distance, rustle of branches against my window, I swear I heard instead the harsh knock of Marko Klarin, come to expose me as a thief.

As I lay there, tossing and turning, your words, Majko, kept running through my head. Lie low. Don’t stir trouble. Remember what happened to Nera. Forgive me, but sometimes the lessons of the past seem so far-off, like one of those fairy tales you used to tell me before bed. Women like us—herbalists—don’t need to fear the stake anymore. And yet I should’ve known better. I should’ve thought of you, how those nasty rumors spread all because Otac died too soon. If Marko accuses me of being a thief, then what little status I have will be ruined entirely. All it takes is a spark of mistrust for the flames of suspicion to grow. If they chase me off the island, where will I go?