Sleep did not so much come as retreat.

  The figurine watched from the bedside table, or so it seemed to Andrew in the dark. The memory of its response still lived in his palm. He paced from window to bed and back, trapped in a tight stillness. Only the sound of morning footsteps beyond his door finally broke the spell.

  He found Heather in the kitchen, warming her hands around a mug of tea.

  “You’re up early,” she said.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Still thinking about last night?”

  Andrew shrugged.

  “Not just that.” He hesitated. “Things that used to be normal… they’re not staying put. They feel alive.”

  Heather studied him.

  “You’re an artist. You’ve always seen the world differently. Maybe that’s your gift.”

  “This isn’t a gift,” Andrew said, his voice rough. “It’s a pull. From inside. And I can’t ignore it.”

  She stepped closer and rested a hand on his wrist.

  “You were always the first to sense things, even as a little boy. When someone was sad, or hiding something.”

  She paused.

  “Have you talked to Veronica?”

  “She doesn’t want to hear it. She thinks I’m making it up. But sometimes…” He trailed off. “Sometimes I think she feels it too, and pretends she doesn’t.”

  Heather looked into her mug.

  “That might not be coincidence. Maybe you’re meant to figure this out together.”

  Andrew nodded, his fingers closing around the figurine in his pocket.

  “I’d like that.”

  The back door opened. Logan stepped in, cheeks red from the cold, ice dusting his lashes. He shook snow from his jacket.

  “Family meeting without me?” he asked, glancing between them.

  “You always arrive for the interesting part,” Heather replied with a faint smile. She nodded subtly toward Andrew.

  Logan’s expression shifted. He set a sharpening stone on the table.

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  “If you need to clear your head, the woodpile’s waiting. Logs are soaked through.”

  “I’ll just walk,” Andrew said, pulling on his coat.

  “Don’t go far,” Logan said quietly.

  Andrew met his mother’s eyes, gratitude passing between them, and stepped outside.

  As he wandered the yard, the house woke behind him.

  In the kitchen Mary was putting away dishes while Veronica stared at her plate.

  “You could try being on his side,” Mary said softly.

  “And listen to more fantasies?” Veronica snorted.

  “What if he’s seeing something we’ve missed?”

  Veronica froze. Her mother’s voice held quiet certainty. For a moment it felt as if Mary knew more than she let on.

  “Right,” Veronica muttered.

  She left for her room, restless. The words stuck: something we’ve missed.

  At the window she spotted Andrew below, pacing the frost-covered grass like something lost.

  Clouds swallowed the sky. The wind sharpened in the chimneys.

  Andrew was on his third loop around the manor when he bent to tie his lace. Movement caught his eye.

  Veronica stood at her window, waving him in.

  He ran before the thought finished forming.

  “Look…” She met him in the doorway, then faltered. “I had a dream. Last night, when you were… out there.”

  Andrew shed his coat.

  “Let me guess. You were queen of the universe?”

  She let the joke pass.

  “We were in a forest. Thick fog. No sound, no wind. But the branches moved, deciding where we could walk. The ground kept shifting under our feet.”

  She traced the doorframe with her thumb, avoiding his eyes. The mask was gone.

  “And the whole time… someone was with us.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But I knew her. The woman from the photograph. Her face just… appeared. I woke up and didn’t know where I was.”

  His skin prickled.

  “You remember it clearly?”

  “It felt more real than this.” She stared at the falling snow. “I don’t understand any of it.”

  Andrew’s fingers found the figurine. Its warmth was strange comfort. For the first time in ages she wasn’t laughing.

  “I thought… maybe my dream and what you see are connected,” she said quietly.

  Andrew stared, stunned. He hadn’t dared hope.

  “Then it’s not coincidence,” he breathed.

  They talked until raised voices drifted from the sitting room.

  They found the family gathered there.

  Logan sat by the fire, turning kindling over and over. Heather stood with arms folded tight. Mary set out cups with sharp precision. Victor gripped a mug of cold tea by the window.

  “This can’t go on,” Heather was saying. “Not after last night.”

  “And what exactly do you propose?” Victor asked, his voice tight.

  Mary set down a teaspoon with a clink.

  “We stop pretending it’s nothing.”

  Silence fell.

  Andrew and Veronica paused in the doorway.

  “Party’s started without us,” Veronica said, forcing carelessness.

  “You’re just in time,” Logan said, his eyes on Victor.

  Victor surfaced from his thoughts. He opened his mouth, but a hard knock cut through the house.

  Once.

  Then again, louder, as the wind rattled the frame.

  Everyone froze.

  “Who on earth would come out in this?” Heather asked, her voice suddenly alert.

  Victor crossed the room. His hand closed on the handle.

  He did not open it at once.

  Then he pulled the door wide.

  A figure stood on the threshold, wrapped in a dark cloak. The hood hid its face completely, a void the hallway light could not touch. Snow clung to the hem, caught in threads of ancient embroidery that glimmered faintly.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” the voice rasped, dry and worn. “I was told you might receive me.”

  No one moved.

  The visitor lifted its head a fraction.

  “And I see,” it added softly, “that I am not too late.”

  In Andrew’s pocket the figurine jerked violently. Searing pain stabbed his thigh. He bit back a cry as sweat broke out and a deafening ring filled his ears.

  Through the roar he saw the air in the room begin to shiver.