It was absurd. Wren hadn’t believed in ghosts in years—hadn’t even thought of them since she was a child. Some of her Sisters believed a ghost lived in the abbey bell tower and would dare each other to creep inside on interminable winter nights. Most of the time, they only lasted a minute before they ran shrieking down the staircase. They were nothing but games. Silly exercises of bored and overactive imaginations, as Heloise often told them. The Goddess gives new life unto those who die, she would say. There is no such thing as ghosts.

To Wren, it was all nonsense. She knew well enough by now that no one ever came back from the dead.

“And what would you say as a sensible man?” Wren asked.

“I don’t know. All I know is there’s something not quite right about Colwick Hall.”

The carriage rattled its way onto a wooded road just as the snowfall grew thicker. Through the inky darkness, Wren looked up to see the trees’ limbs spread above her like the ever-branching vascular system of the lungs. Their trunks were bent at the waist, as if recoiling from something buried beneath the snowbanks. Watched by these grim mountains, Wren almost understood why people saw spirits in these storms.

As much as she wanted to scoff at Basil, old folklore whispered in the apprentice’s quarters drifted into her thoughts. Just like that, she was seven years old again, shivering beneath a duvet drawn up to her ears. To banish a ghost, Sister Bernadette would say, candlelight flickering wildly in her eyes, you tell it, “This place is of the living and yours no longer.”

They traveled by dim, swaying lantern light until they reached the end of the path. It was barred by a massive gate that stretched between two stone pedestals linked by a wrought-iron arch. Across it was a name punched out of metal: Colwick Hall.

Basil stopped to unlatch the gate. The hinge showered rust onto the snow and stained it red. As they neared Colwick Hall, something about it called her in. Maybe it was the inevitable size of it, or how at a distance, its silhouette was an absolute, perfect black. Against the stark, snow-covered grounds, Alistair Lowry’s estate was another mountain peak.

When Basil parked the carriage in the driveway, Wren eased herself onto the ground, relishing the pop of her joints. She hardly had a chance to take in her surroundings before Basil removed her luggage from the trunk and shoved it toward her. For such a courteous coachman, he now was hurried and distant, already climbing back into the driver’s seat.

“Do you want to come inside to warm up? Or to rest a little?” she asked.

“No.” It was clearly sharper than he intended, because he forced a smile. “Thank you, Ms. Southerland. That’s very kind, but I need to get home before the weather worsens.”