The next morning, the sunlight filtered through thin curtains, casting pale lines across Ivy's bed. She hadn't slept much. Her dreams had been full of hushed voices and cold hands brushing her shoulders, the smell of damp earth rising beneath her skin.
Kate had already gone to town with Mrs. Grose to pick up groceries. Flora had run off somewhere with her skipping rope, leaving Ivy alone. The house was quiet, but not peacefully so—more like it was waiting.
Ivy returned to Miss Jessel's journal, curled up beneath the window. She traced the soft ink with her fingertips, rereading the last passage:
"He promised he'd never let me go. He says my soul belongs to him. I laughed at first. But now, I wonder if he was ever joking."
There was no name. Just "he." But Ivy's heart twisted when she read it—because she knew exactly what kind of promise that was. She wasn't sure if she found it terrifying or beautiful.
Later that afternoon, Flora grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the garden.
"Come see! I found something red," Flora said with a gleam in her eyes. "It's where Miss Jessel used to go when she was sad."
Ivy followed the little girl past tangled hedges and into a forgotten part of the estate. Flora skipped ahead, her dress swaying, and suddenly turned through a hidden path, overgrown and narrow.
The garden they stepped into was quiet. Still. Like time had stopped breathing.
It was overrun with red flowers—roses, poppies, bleeding hearts—all twisted together in a strange, beautiful chaos. A cracked stone bench sat beneath a tree, vines climbing its sides like fingers. At the far end stood a small, iron statue of an angel with a broken wing, one eye worn smooth by rain.
"She always came here," Flora whispered, no longer playful. "She said it reminded her of love and death. That's what she called it—the Red Garden."
Ivy's skin prickled. The flowers seemed too red, too alive. The petals looked like they could bleed if she touched them.
That night, Ivy sat at her desk, trying to sketch what she'd seen. She hadn't noticed Miles standing in the doorway until he spoke.
"You found it," he said softly, voice low and unreadable.
She turned. "The garden? Flora showed me. Did you used to go there?"
Miles stepped into the room, slowly, like a shadow peeling off the wall.
"Sometimes. With her. It was her favorite place." He paused, then walked over and picked up her sketch. His finger trailed the edge of the page. "You've got a good eye."
"I don't really draw," she said.
"Then why did you?"
"I don't know," Ivy said truthfully. "It just... felt like it needed to be remembered."
Miles looked at her then—really looked. His eyes searched hers like he was trying to find something beneath them. He moved closer, too close, his hand still holding the sketch.
"I like that about you," he said. "You see things."
Ivy couldn't move. The air between them was thick and slow. When he placed the drawing back down, their hands touched for just a moment.
She felt it in her stomach.
A knot that pulled tight and didn't let go.
As Miles turned to leave, he paused at the door, voice low.
"You should stay away from that garden at night," he said. "Things bloom there you don't want to wake."
And with that, he disappeared down the hall.
Ivy stayed up long after. Not because she was afraid.
But because something in her wanted to go back.