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“Sure,” I say hesitantly.

“Pomalo.”

“Pomalo?” I’m unfamiliar with the word.

“It means something like ‘take it easy.’ Relax. Things don’t move so quickly here, like in America. Take coffee, for example. Here people don’t take it and go. They sit and talk, drink it for hours. Yes, I admit Karmela can be a little cold sometimes. Can you blame her, when her only daughter left? But you need to wait. Things will get better with time.”

His words sink in slowly, stirring my hopes back to life. “You think?”

“I’m sure. And while you’re here . . . you should get to know the island a little. Unwind.” I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but I catch a flicker of interest in his eyes.

I stare down at the floor, mulling over what he said. Perhaps I overreacted when I rushed to the ticket booth—it was just my imagination getting the best of me. And Karmela’s wariness does make some sense. My mom was the same way, after all.

“I’ll consider it,” I say, even though I’ve made my decision. Sliding down from the counter, I head toward the exit.

“Good,” Luka says. Then more hesitantly, he adds, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for how I treated you before. I may have judged some parts of you too quickly.”

I pause with my hand on the door, considering I might’ve done the same. “Some parts?”

He arches an eyebrow at my strappy sandals. Secondhand Dior, courtesy of my mom. “Hope to see you around, Hollywood.”

Interlude

The House narrows its shutters, watching the not-quite Marija.

Karmela is fretting over a wound on her leg. How careless—if the girl grew up here, she would have known to be more careful. She would have known the paths and stones like the back of her hand.

And yet . . . warmth creeps up its core, as if a fire has been kindled in its hearth. It has witnessed something like this before. Yes, with little Marija. Little Karmela. Mothers doting on their daughters. Karmela clearly cares for the girl’s well-being, even if she is a disappointment.

What is her name again?

Pet-rrra. The House rolls out the syllables on its stone tongue. It is not so bad. Firm. Strong.

Perhaps the House was too harsh before. It was not her choice to leave Tolba. That was her mother’s mistake. And yet Petra returned.

But her voice. The House shudders just listening to it. All stop-and-go, staccato and stilted. Karmela doesn’t seem to mind, but it grates like the awful crunch of broken glass underfoot. She speaks like a child—one who hasn’t been paying close attention to her lessons. How could Marija let this happen? This is the consequence of straying too far from your roots, from the steady foundation laid by generations before. Marko did not toil day and night to build this beautiful home for his legacy to be so easily forgotten.

An idea whispers through the floorboards, up the cracks in the walls. The House could teach her our language, influence her tongue to move the right way. Just enough for her to understand, to smooth the clamor escaping from her mouth. That way, Karmela and Petra could speak more easily. Grow closer. Amidst their chatter, who would even notice the awful slap of the Nightmare’s feet as she haunts the halls?

That is why Marija left, after all. There was too much darkness lurking.

The House mustn’t let it happen again.

Seven

Magdalena

16 June 1895

I thought of you all night, Majko. I cannot get a certain memory out of my head.

You were at the very same table I’m sitting at now. Herbs were scattered all around—rosemary, nettle, wormwood—and your hair was wild from all the times you had run your hands through it. The candles were burning low, casting shadows over Otac’s face as he lay in bed. He looked like death, his cheeks sunken in, sweat slicked across his forehead. We tried so hard to save him. But in the end, it didn’t matter.

Do you remember how the people whispered at his funeral?

I knew she was never to be trusted.

She did this for his money.