Howard Miller’s house sat on a narrow road, little more than a cattle trail, off the main thoroughfare. Months of rain and snow had turned it into a muddy mire Alva’s carriage was unable to manage, so she picked her way up it by foot. By the smell it had been a cattle trail recently, and for the hundredth time in the last month she reminded herself to buy some sensible boots.

It was just after nine o’clock in the morning and most of the street’s inhabitants had already gone about their days, but there were two children playing in one of the yards, trying doggedly to have a snowball fight using the thin layer of snow clinging to the ground. Mostly it was a mudball fight—Alva remembered the cattle and shuddered—but they paused hostilities long enough to watch her walk by, smothering giggles when her foot slipped and she had to throw her arms out for balance.

Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. She’d never cared for that particular verse, but it was certainly the theme of the day. She was there to beg.

After Alfred had left, she’d slept for sixteen hours. Then she’d gone looking for her account books.

Cold reality: she couldn’t afford to bring in an out-of-town crew and be blackmailed. Losing six hundred dollars a month left her with barely enough to pay even a local crew, and she’d have to let the rental house go as soon as rooms at Liefdehuis were even vaguely habitable. Another day of rapid inquiry had left her with the information that there were no available work crews anywhere in the surrounding area, and there weren’t likely to be, for her project, anytime in the near future. No one actually said it was because her house was haunted, but it was clear the story was out.

It was convince Howard Miller to come back or … nothing. This wasn’t a life-or-death situation. She wouldn’t starve; she wouldn’t even be uncomfortable. She had so many more options than most people—she might not have enough income to simultaneously bring in an out-of-town crew, renovate a house, and be blackmailed, but Alfred had been right about one thing. Alain’s death had meant she’d retained the small bit of her personal wealth he hadn’t managed to spend. More than enough to take a comfortable flat, anywhere she wanted. She could go back to Montmartre. She could go anywhere. So why didn’t she?