"All that remains is silence. And the sound of something waiting underneath it."
It was Flora's scream that shattered the morning calm.
It came from beyond the trees, near the lake—high and sharp, like glass breaking underwater. Ivy jolted awake in the dark comfort of her room. Her limbs were heavy. Her chest tight. The warmth of Miles beside her had vanished sometime in the night, replaced by a creeping chill that hugged the walls of the manor like fog.
Another scream.
This one lower. More human.
Ivy pulled herself from bed, numb and slow, like she was still halfway between dreaming and waking. Her bare feet hit the floor. Cold. Wet? She glanced down. The edges of her nightgown were soaked, though she hadn't left the room all night.
Had she?
Downstairs, the front door stood open. Wind slid across the marble floors, brushing past her ankles as if urging her forward. And then she saw her: Flora, kneeling by the edge of the lake, her tiny arms wrapped around something pale and stiff floating in the water.
Someone.
Ivy moved without thinking, boots forgotten, heart frozen.
She knew before she reached the lake. She knew.
Mrs. Grose.
Face down. Dress ballooned with water. Her graying hair spread like ink in the current. The surface of the lake, once still, now shimmered with secrets. As if it had accepted another offering—another soul.
"Help her!" Flora sobbed, gripping Ivy's arm. "She's cold! She won't wake up! She—she said she'd be right back, she—"
"She's gone," Ivy said quietly.
And she didn't feel anything.
Not panic. Not fear. Not even sadness. Just... cold. A deep, knowing chill that settled in her bones like a voice whispering: You saw this coming, didn't you?
Miles stood a few paces back, hands in his coat pockets, watching.
Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
The coroner arrived later that day. They ruled it an accident—an unfortunate misstep in the fog. But Ivy knew better. She saw the bruises beneath Mrs. Grose's jawline, the fingernail marks on her arms. And most of all, she saw Miles's grin when no one else was looking.
"You're not upset," Ivy said that night, standing in the hallway outside his room.
"Should I be?" he asked.
"She took care of you."
Miles tilted his head. "She took care of him, Ivy. Not me."
That sent something sharp into her spine. "Peter?"
He didn't answer. Just smiled again. "She wouldn't stop talking about you, you know. Said you were asking questions. Getting too close."
Ivy swallowed hard. "Did you...?"
Miles stepped closer. "Don't ask things you already know, Ivy."
Flora refused to eat that night. She sat at the dinner table with swollen eyes and red cheeks, a single doll pressed to her chest.
"I saw her," she whispered.
"Who?" Ivy asked gently.
"Miss Jessel. She was standing by the trees. She was crying."
Ivy's stomach twisted.
"She said... she wanted someone else to come with her. Someone who knows what it's like to love the wrong person."
Miles was watching from across the table, twirling a spoon between his fingers.
"She meant me," Flora whispered. "Didn't she?"
"No," Ivy said too quickly.
"Yes," Miles said at the same time.
That night, Ivy wandered through the halls like a shadow.
She passed Mrs. Grose's empty room. The bed still made. Bible still resting on the nightstand. A cup of tea—untouched—cold and milky.
She kept walking.
To the west wing. To Miles's room.
But when she opened the door... she froze.
It wasn't his room anymore.
It was Quint's.
Faint cigar smoke lingered in the air. A velvet chair sat in the corner, one leg broken. And on the dresser—Peter's watch. Not a replica. Not a lookalike.
The real thing.
She walked slowly across the floor, her reflection dancing in the dusty mirror on the far wall. But it wasn't her reflection. It was—
"Ivy," a voice said behind her.
She turned.
Miles. Shirtless. Calm. Close.
"You came to me," he whispered.
Her breath hitched. "This was his room."
Miles nodded. "It's always been mine."
He raised a hand to her cheek. "You see now, don't you? Why I couldn't let her stop you. Why I had to take her away."
"You—"
"She was trying to ruin us. She thought she could take you back. But you're already mine, Ivy."
She stared at him.
At the black horse painting above the bed.
At the ghost of a man who had once died in this room... and never left.
"I think I'm going mad," she whispered.
Miles leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
"Then go mad with me."