The temperature dropped as she moved deeper into the house. She held her coat together at her neck as she walked, the sound of her steps strangely muffled in the empty building. It was probably having so many walls—the front of the house resembled a rabbit warren. There were no open spaces, no clear views, only walls, pressing in on her, and shadows, shadows that seemed wet and dark and deep, like they could hide any number of sins and secrets. She caught the hint of lavender again and stopped short—not a memory, then. Alva made herself take a breath, but it came into her chest short and shuddery. Someone had left a sachet somewhere or set dried lavender in one of the closets—

She flinched as a sharp gust from one of the broken windows cut across the back of her neck. The lavender was gone; only the smell of dust and rot and frost remained. The lantern barely illuminated her path. She needed to move. She needed to leave this hallway. But the shadows were getting longer as the light faded, and it had smelled like lavender, and—

“Pull yourself together,” she whispered. “It’s just a house. Any house would seem sinister after being empty so long.” The wind sobbed around the old stone walls, and she hugged her arms over her chest as she thought about just how long Leifdehuis had been left empty, alone and forgotten. Abandoned to the fate of a monster.

Fear gave way to sadness as she walked, a whole-body kind of sorrow, one that started in the pit of her stomach and went across her clavicle and into her throat. Had anyone ever loved this house? Or had they only built it because it was expected of them, to show off?

Had anyone missed it, after they’d left?

Probably not, she thought, moving into one of the three long rooms that formed the back of the house. They’d simply packed up and gone, scared off by the dust and mold and their own disordered superstitions. No one had thought about what would happen to it, abandoned to the wild and the elements and the cruel passage of time. No one had given a damn.

She set the lantern down onto an old, battered table, left over from who knows how many owners, and stared out the cloudy windows at the Hudson River. The banks were muddy and barren, only a few spindly, warped trees clinging to life along the edge. Some teetered precariously over the water, nothing below them to break their fall when their roots finally lost their hold on the loose earth.