Page 64

Interlude

Foolish girl! Where is she off to in the night? Doesn’t she know she needs to rest?

It is the Nightmare weaving her trickery, luring her outside despite my calming influence. There is nothing to see in the workshop. Old wounds must be left alone to heal, not torn open.

She must be stopped, saved from this madness. But first—

The book lies on the bed. She abandoned it in her haste. This is the House’s chance.

The floorboards rumble, a tremor cascading from the second floor down to the living room, where the dog sleeps soundly.

Not anymore.

Twenty-Seven

Petra

July 2026

I manage to tiptoe past Karmela’s room and down the stairs without any incident. But as I approach the living room, the ground trembles beneath my feet. I falter, bracing myself against the wall.

Nails clack toward me. Rex looms in the doorway, the white of his fur luminescent in the dark. I take a tentative step away from him, toward the door, but his low growl stops me.

“It’s alright,” I whisper. “I’m only going outside for some fresh air.” More madness. As if he will understand.

He glowers at me, eyes black with mistrust. But a moment later, his ears perk and he glances up toward the second floor. I follow his line of sight. Has Karmela woken up?

Without sparing me another glance, he bounds up the stairs. I exhale in relief—I have to move fast if I’m going to reach the workshop before Karmela notices I’m gone.

Just before I leave, I take an electric lantern from the shelf. Karmela and I had brought several of them up from the basement for the gala. Turning it on, I step outside.

In the distance, the workshop still flickers in and out of the past and present, like a beacon. The lavender bushes quiver like agitated sentries as I stride toward it. Go back, go back, go back, they seem to say. But my heart is set. Whether it’s delirium or foolhardiness, I need to keep moving forward. To go inside.

As I draw closer to the workshop, my heart picks up pace, matching the rhythm of the blinking light. Past, present, old, new. Then, amidst the eerie quiet, a scream rises, growing louder and louder. Nikola!

Magdalena.

I cringe against the sound, coming to a stop a few feet away. The workshop is in ruins again, the sign nailed across the door challenging me. Zabranjen Ulaz. Entrance Forbidden. I dig my feet into the ground, bracing myself. Take a deep breath. Close my eyes and focus.

Show me what happened to Magdalena, I will the workshop. I want to know the truth.

Beneath the darkness of my eyelids, a light burns through, growing stronger, more certain. When I finally open them, the past no longer pulses like a fading heartbeat. The workshop stands before me unchanging—new, undamaged, whole.

The sign on the door is gone, nothing barring my way. In fact, the door is slightly ajar, inviting me forward.

Laughter and music ripple toward me.

I turn to find a dazzling party unfolding at the base of the house. Oil lanterns glimmer along the lavender field. People bounce merrily to the rhythm of a live band, someone playing a mandolin. I remember the diary. It must be the night of my family’s Lavanda Gala—the night Nikola was to announce his engagement. I am in Magdalena’s body once more.

My heart swells with wild hope, though I’m not sure if it’s mine or hers. Maybe the night ended happily for her—or maybe I am a naive fool.

My hand rises of its own accord, resting on my belly. I’m wearing the same outfit I wore within the bunja, the white blouse with shoulder straps and red floral apron. Inside, I sense she is ready to enter, and I am too. So, together, we walk through the door. She to her future—and I to her past.

Twenty-Eight

Magdalena

August 1895