The air crackled. The lawn and building looked gauzy. Surreal felt a queer kind of spinning.

Something brushed her shoulder.

Surreal glanced up, stared, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

The girl swinging from the noose tied to the tree’s perfect branch stared back from empty sockets. She and the rope were transparent, ghostly, yet Surreal didn’t doubt she was there, didn’t doubt the dark bloodstains that ran down the girl’s cheeks, didn’t doubt the dark stains on the dress.

“Hello, Surreal,” said a whispery midnight voice. “That’s Marjane. She told an uncle once she couldn’t stand the sight of him, so they smeared honey on her eyes and hung her there. She wasn’t supposed to die, but she struggled so much when the crows came and pecked out her eyes, the knot slipped and the noose killed her.”

“Can’t…can’t you get her down?” Surreal whispered, still not willing to turn around and face whatever was behind her.

“Oh, her body’s been gone years and years. Marjane’s just a ghost now. Even so, when I’m here, she still has some strength. Girls are safe around this tree. Uncles don’t like being kicked.”

Surreal turned and stifled a scream.

“Hush,” Jaenelle said with a savagely sweet smile. She was as transparent as Marjane, and the lacy nighty she wore didn’t move when the wind gusted. Only the sapphire eyes seemed alive.

Surreal looked away. She felt drawn by those eyes, and she knew instinctively that anything drawn into those eyes now would never come back.

“The debt’s not yours to pay, Surreal,” Jaenelle said in her midnight whisper. “He doesn’t owe his blood to you.”

“But the ones he owes can’t call in the debt!” Surreal hissed, keeping her voice low.

Jaenelle laughed. It was like hearing the winter wind laugh. “You think not? There is dead and there is dead, Surreal.”

“He owes me for Titian,” Surreal insisted.

“He owes Titian for Titian. When the time comes, he’ll pay the debt to her.”

“He killed her.”

“No, he broke her, seeded her. A man named Greer, Dorothea’s hound, killed her.”

Surreal brushed at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “You’re dead, aren’t you?” she said wearily.

“No. My body’s still there.” Jaenelle pointed toward Briarwood and frowned. “They gave me some of their special ‘medicine,’ the one that’s supposed to make girls behave, but something went wrong. I’m still connected to my body. I can’t break the link and leave it, but this misty place is very nice. Do you see the mist, Surreal?”

Surreal shook her head.

“When I’m in the mist, I can see them all.” Jaenelle smiled and held out a transparent hand. “Come, Surreal. Let me show you Briarwood.”

Surreal stood up, brushing the snow from her knees. Jaenelle laughed softly. It was the most haunting, terrifying sound Surreal had ever heard.

“Briarwood is the pretty poison,” Jaenelle said softly. “There is no cure for Briarwood. Beware the golden spider who spins a tangled web.” Her hand touched Surreal’s arm, drawing her toward the garden. “Rose said I should build a trap, something that will snap shut if my blood is spilled. So I did. If they spring the trap…dying is what they’ll wish for, but their wish will be long in coming.”