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But she isn’t listening, already at the door. She pauses at the threshold, turning to face me. “This is all Marija’s fault,” she declares in a heavy tone. “By separating you from your roots, she left you lost. You didn’t know anything about our family, and so you were led astray by baseless claims and fanciful stories. Nikola did not murder anyone. He was a loving and pious man. And we are not cursed. This is our home,” she says, hammering the word like a nail. “Our legacy. Without it, we are nothing.” She pulls her shoulders back, conviction flashing in her eyes. “I already lost my daughter to this madness. I’m not losing you too.”

So there it is: the true reason my mom left. Finally, I have it, but at what cost?

Without waiting for a response, Karmela leaves, shutting the door with a firm thud. I collapse onto the bed, seething with frustration.

I need to find the diary. It’s the only way to prove the truth to her—to anyone.

A metallic clink at the door pulls me upright. Heart skittering, I shoot toward it and twist the knob. It doesn’t budge. The linen stuffed into the keyhole is gone.

I’m locked in.

“Karmela?” I call, disbelief catching in my throat.

“Stay,” she calls, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Less than a half hour later, Karmela returns with the doctor. I’m back on the bed again, exhausted after tearing my room apart. Still no diary.

I stare forward sullenly as the doctor—a balding man with wiry glasses—prods and pokes at me, asking me endless questions about my health.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, for what feels like the hundredth time.

“She had a fever. It started yesterday,” Karmela offers. “Her head was burning up.”

The doctor peers down at me, his lips slanting into a frown. “Her temperature is a little high. She should take some aspirin and rest. No physical exertion.” He addresses Karmela, as if I’m not there.

She looks at me with an expression of pride, as if to say, See? I was right.

I want to tell her it doesn’t matter, that what I saw was still real. But I remain silent, not wanting to give the doctor any more fodder. I doubt he’d believe my story.

“Yes, Doctor,” Karmela replies for me. “Thank you for your help.”

After he leaves, I lie there in defeat, wondering if I have indeed gone mad, if my slight fever somehow made me imagine everything that happened over the past few days. Did I really go out to the bunja? Find the mora’s diary? Witness her murder?

My memories melt together in a blurry haze. I can hardly think straight. The scent of lavender bears down on me, more powerful than ever, making my limbs heavy, my eyelids droop.

Sleep, a voice commands, and I succumb.

Interlude

The stones of the House gnash and grind in fury.

What deceit has the Nightmare planted in Petra’s mind? The Nightmare murdered? By Nikola’s hand?

It is all wrong—she is the monster. The murderer. The House witnessed the act with its own eyes. Trembled in silent horror as she took life again and again: Marko and Dobrila and Jeronim and Lucija and Šime and Jadran. The House remembers. It remembers them all.

And it knows exactly what to do. Let her sleep, let her rest. Let her mind drift far, far away.

In the meantime, the House will freshen its sparkle. Air out its dark spaces. In the face of their ugliness, it will shine as it once did. The people used to admire Lavender House.

They will do so again.

Thirty-Three

Petra

July 2026

Nightmares terrorize my dreams.