I had watched the commotion on the lawn from many different angles—my chambers, the library, the kitchens, the first-floor salon—but never from the roof. The thought of doing so then came only out of desperation. As I climbed upward through Coldthistle House, dodging distant voices so as to remain alone, I felt the panic subside a little, as if by leaving Mr. Morningside far below in his cave-like offices I could escape the tide of confusion altogether.
The relief was only temporary, lasting through my search for a way out onto the upper battlements. I had not returned to the topmost floor of the mansion since my first ugly encounter with it; I knew that the Residents, the shadow creatures that haunted Coldthistle, lingered there in their greatest concentration. But they had been strangely absent from my life in recent months. A new fear struck me—that maybe their scarcity was somehow related to Lee’s death and subsequent return to life. After all, I had seen his shadow bleed back into his body, bringing with it breath and, seemingly, a second chance.
And it had been Mrs. Haylam’s strange magic that had done so. I winced as I avoided the large ballroom-like expanse on the top floor and the evil book that resided within it—there was so much more to think about than just my “father’s” letter. Had I done the right thing by bringing back Lee—a decision that had resulted in the loss of Mary? Mary, whom I was still desperately hoping to bring back, too? I had gone to the magical spring in Ireland to make my wish that she return, but perhaps I had done something wrong. Or the magic hadn’t taken. Or I had misinterpreted entirely how I might bring her back again. . . .
Ah, and then the sickness in my gut returned. I hurried down the hall, finding the air musty and warm up on this floor. A thin, rickety banister ran along the corridor, giving an open and dizzying view down to the levels below and the main foyer. Dust fell like soft snow from the rafters. The walls, decorated with Mr. Morningside’s paintings of reedy, gawping birds, were hung with a medieval tapestry that was rapidly disintegrating into faded tatters. The wood and stone behind were black with grime. Though I saw no shadow creatures as I scurried onward, I nonetheless felt their cold, unsettling presence. I was certain they watched; it was impossible to be alone in Coldthistle House.
I at last reached a door, stooped and dark, with a decorated knob that looked like it had not been touched since its installation. The air around me felt too close, and I breathed hard as I took the little handle and tugged, expecting to find the door locked, and of course it was. Taking a step back, I closed my eyes, letting the ill feeling in my stomach do what it would. I needed that discomfort, that pain, and I focused hard on it, feeling it deeply, until it felt like the warm, dusty air was choking me.
With one last deep breath, I wrapped my hand around the spoon hanging from my neck and pictured it becoming a key. A tiny key, decorative and old, one small and delicate enough to fit into the lock on this miniature door in front of me. My hand flashed hot, and when I opened my eyes there was just such a key nestled in my sweaty palm. I fit the key in the lock, wondering if it was even possible that I could conjure the correct thing. But I had.
The room beyond opened to me after a few hard pulls on the door. It was a dirty, forgotten attic, crowded with moth-eaten linens and damaged furniture. One of the mansion’s many chimneys ran through it awkwardly, the brick body of it poking through the middle of the room. I scuttled through the attic without giving the mess a second look, spying another door on the far side, one with a grimy window peeking out into the open air.
The small key I had conjured fit that lock, too, but the door wouldn’t budge. I gave the stubborn thing a shove, and then another, growing warmer and clammier as I put my shoulder to the wood and really pushed. The door swung open too quickly, and I tumbled out into the late-afternoon winds, finding the edge of the roof much too soon. I gave a short shriek of surprise, feeling nothing but the void as my forward movement sent me reeling over the slates.
There was no banister to catch me. God, how could I be so stupid? My hands flailed in every direction, trying to find purchase, but it was too late. I was going to fall.
And then I wasn’t. It happened in an instant, a strong arm hooking around my middle and yanking me back to safety. I screamed again, grabbing the arm at my waist and leaning back, sending us both sprawling onto the dark slant of the roof.
I breathed heavily, closing my eyes, shifting to the side, and rolling off my savior. Leaning on my elbows, I looked up to find Lee, dressed in his shirtsleeves, staring down at me. That was almost as shocking as going end over end off the roof.
“What are you doing up here?” he demanded.
He looked different. He sounded different.
Of course he does, you fool, he died and came back to life. It would change anyone.
“Forgive me,” I blurted out, struggling to gain my feet. His hair was still curled and golden, but longer now, unkempt. There was a dark, haunted look to his turquoise eyes, and a gaunter hunger to the hollows of his cheeks. His clothes were rumpled, and he was not wearing a waistcoat or jacket. Lee turned away, hiding his face. He went to the edge of the roof and stared down, perching there like a gargoyle.
My heart was pounding at the sight of him. He had tried to save me twice now. And what had I given him in return?
“Why are you here?” he asked again. His voice was hushed. A snarl.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my apron and crossed my arms over my stomach, finding the wind at that height bracingly cold. “I needed to be alone. I didn’t mean to intrude . . .”
“Well, you seem to be intruding,” he said. And then, as if he couldn’t stand to be rude, even if he had every right to be, he added, “I’ll just go.”
“Please don’t.” It was unfair of me, but I hadn’t seen him in so long. I felt suddenly desperate to keep him there. He sighed softly. “We never . . . I owe you an apology. Several. Hundreds, maybe. It was just . . . I thought in the moment it was the right thing to do, and I couldn’t let you go, not like that. I’m sure that sounds very selfish.”
He still refused to look at me. Lee tucked his hands behind his back, and I saw that they were pale and scratched. “So give your apology, then. If you must.”
“Forgive me,” I said quietly. They were words I had wanted to say to him for months, but they hurt, and they came out in a whisper. He probably could not even hear me over the whip of the wind. “Forgive me, please,” I said, louder. I tried to rub some warmth back into my arms. “Everything with your uncle happened so fast. One moment he was trying to kill me, and the next you were shot. You didn’t deserve to die, Lee; you were only trying to help. I made a devil’s bargain, I know that, and I should pay the price for it. Not you.”
“Should Mary have paid?” he growled.
My eyes snapped shut. That hit the mark. “No. I’m trying to mend that, too. Apparently I can only break things, not put them back together.”
At that, he snorted. “How very sad for you.”
The wind tugged at his hair and he settled it, irritated. Far down below us, the workmen on the lawn called to one another, then laughed about some jest we could not hear.
“I will not stop looking for Mary,” I told him resolutely. “There’s a special spring . . . I know it’s the key, and I’ll find a way to get her back. And . . . And I will never stop trying to make amends for what I did to you. You have no idea how sorry I am, Lee.”
After that, we were both silent for a long, shivering moment. His shoulders drooped and then he looked to the side, one eye finding me, studying me. “So why are you dawdling here with me if you’re so eager to be alone?”
I thought I heard a sliver of his old, jolly demeanor seeping through. His tone was not as harsh, but he also did not appear ready to accept my apology. He might never.
“Believe it or not, I received the most astounding letter. From my father.”
His brow furrowed. “I thought your father—”
“A different one. My real father, supposedly. I honestly have no idea what to think.”
“What does it say in the letter, then?” He turned away again, grumbling. “Not that it matters one jot to me.”
I felt a wry smile tugging at my mouth, but I held it at bay. Perhaps one day he would speak to me like a friend again. The only thing I could do was keep trying. “Well, that’s the other tricky bit.” Taking one tiny step toward him on the ledge, I pulled the folded letter from my apron pocket. “It’s all in Gaelic, and I can’t read a word of it.”
“Your dear friend Mr. Morningside wouldn’t help you?” he sneered.
The urge to say something smart was difficult to fight. He deserved my kindness and patience, and so I took a deep breath, unfolding the letter and looking at the unfamiliar words. “He isn’t my friend, and no, he wouldn’t help me. He just said something unbelievably condescending and sent me on my way.” I pursed my lips and sighed. “As usual.”
Lee vented a husky laugh, glancing over his shoulder at me. He looked ready to say something, but his eyes caught on my necklace. I looked down; the key had reverted to its former appearance. The spoon he had given me as a gift. The letter shook in my hand, and I could see Lee’s eyes turn blacker and blacker, as if pure ink spread across the whites and turquoise, revealing the living shadow within.
His eyes were black for only a moment, then he seemed to struggle with what to say, fidgeting, whipping his head around and away from me. At his sides, his fists clenched.
“You still have the spoon,” he said, hoarse.
“Of course I do.” I put the letter away, realizing that I would find no solitude there on the roof, and no help.
Lee nodded and looked out over the hills rolling up to the boundaries of Coldthistle House. The wind pulled at his hair again, but this time he let it. “Louisa . . . you should go now. Please, go now.”
And I would have, I really would have, but as I turned to go I saw a shape in the distance, hurtling out of the sky. As soon as it appeared, a cold, deep dread iced through my bones. I felt frozen in place, petrified, a part of me I could not name but hear whispering words of warning. It was like Mr. Morningside’s green door, an ancient calling, though this one did not say come closer, but hide.
It was like a star falling in an arc from the heavens, brilliantly gold. The object came closer and closer, and both of us watched in stunned silence as it shimmered overhead, a wail going with it, before the flash of gold careened out of the heavens and landed with a thud in the fields to the east.
I did not heed the warning in my bones. Without another word, we both fled back into the attic, running toward the little door and whatever poor fool had just fallen from the sky.