"Memory. Feelings. Life. Life can be restored with a single stone. That means memory and feelings will become a matter of time. Which will fade first? … And which loss is worse? …"
"The only difference is who will suffer more."
The head of the family returned, and the two adults were waiting for the children in the library. When the young people came in, they were both in unusually high spirits, talking lightly, as if nothing at all had happened.
"Well — we were fortunate. I obtained the poison." The man caught his son's searching look. "You can be certain it works. I tested it. The healer was still alive when I left."
The girl shot him an indignant glance — then almost at once understood that she herself would not have tolerated even the smallest doubt about the reliability of either remedy. Ashamed, she bit her lip and lowered her eyes. The wizard went on.
"Right. The pendant can be removed. It won't matter if we take it off once the poison takes effect and put it back before administering the antidote. The body's vital functions will be sustained only at the level required to prevent cellular and neural death. In other words, the poison preserves the status quo. We will have no more than twelve hours to administer the antidote. That should be enough. We'll set the ceremony for the latest suitable hour — say nine o'clock. They'll verify there's no deception with the body; most likely they'll keep watch at the crypt overnight, see nothing unusual, and leave. After that, we come and take you out."
"And if later they decide to re-examine everything?"
A pause followed.
"We'll deal with that if it happens. Perhaps… we'll raise a double."
"Another piece of dark magic?!"
"One offence tends to lead to the next."
The girl looked quickly at the young man — his father's words and his mother's alarm could have reopened his guilt, undone everything achieved today. To her surprise, he seemed untouched by it.
"Let's not try to solve every problem at once," he said, with unsettling calm.
"Then we prepare for the funeral." The woman brought her hands together in a soft, decisive clap. "We must write to the guardians and the school, arrange the dresses, order flowers and mourning ribbons, organise the reception, prepare the place — there is a great deal to do."
"But…" the girl hesitated, "it will be modest, won't it? After all, this is still a fiction."
"We are staging a fully convincing rite," the witch replied. "Everything must look real. Go to your room — I'll come shortly with the maid. The men will handle the letters and the arrangements."
Nevertheless, everything was arranged without display — private and restrainedly elegant. The young man insisted on a white dress. It was made in a late-nineteenth- to early-twentieth-century style and fell to the floor in a cascade of fine lace, complete in its own beauty.
"Come in. Don't be afraid — I'm not a bride," the girl said to the young man standing in the doorway.
"That depends on how one looks at it." He held a large white rose in one hand — to match the small white buds woven into her hair — and a glass vial in the other. "Dresses suit you. Why don't you wear them more often?" He handed her the flower.
"Because I don't like people staring at me."
Yes — he had looked at her like that once before, on the night of the ball, though she'd had no time then to register it properly. He had blocked her way when she finally broke free of the crowd of overexcited students and was only a few steps from the doors. She had meant to slip out and follow the false professor who had just left the hall. That was the only reason she accepted the invitation.
Not quite true. She had also wanted to see it — the spectacle itself: the decorated hall, the couples turning in a waltz. She assembled the dress in haste — from a T-shirt, a spare uniform skirt and tie, and a three-year-old robe. Trainers instead of shoes. With that bundle she ran to the one room she trusted — her refuge — and asked it for an atelier. The T-shirt and skirt became a light, translucent underdress with a pearlescent green sheen; the robe, stripped of its sleeves, turned into a dense overdress patterned like frost on glass. The tie served as a belt. The colours, of course, she took from the emblem. She arrived just in time for the opening, without even managing proper make-up. Why go to such trouble? For the sake of magic itself.
Everyone admired the dress — her partner, his brother's girlfriend, even the false professor, though it was unsettling to imagine what exactly he saw. Before the transformation, the mirror had shown a heap of mismatched clothes hanging like a sack on a mannequin. First the change appeared in the glass — then in reality. His gaze travelled slowly over her outfit. He showed no concern for whether that scrutiny might make her uncomfortable. What troubled her instead was whether he could see the small mirror-eye hidden in her pocket — now — and through the castle walls — then. She had noticed the spying device with the twins when they were searching the caretaker's office, setting it beside the listening ear on watch. They had fallen asleep, and she had to improvise to warn the would-be thieves without exposing them. That was how they met. Two years ago now. And later she traded the mirror-eye for agreeing to attend the ball with one of them.
"I hope this dress wasn't conjured by a fairy godmother," the professor said at last. "If so, remember it's nearly midnight. Twelve points for such inventive use of technique. Good night."
Time proved that he could see — and that there had been someone else who noticed her that evening as well.
"I'm sorry," the young man said, staring at his feet.
"I can make an exception for you," she replied with a smile. "Don't…" She stopped him as he leaned in to kiss her. "I'm wearing far too much make-up. And it's already late." She lifted the flower to her lips, brushing the petals lightly, then drew in its delicate scent.
"The young master is right!" the elf burst out, unable to contain herself. She looked up at the girl as though at a goddess. "You are so beautiful — so beautiful! What a pity it isn't a wedding dress." One look from the young master told the maid she had overstepped; she shrank back, bracing for punishment.
"That depends how you look at it," the girl said gently, patting her on the shoulder. At the same time, she gave the young man a pointed glance.
"It's time!" someone called from the corridor.
They were left alone.
"Are you sure? Think again. If you—"
"Done." She took the vial from his hands and drank it in a single swallow.
They remained where they were, hardly breathing, waiting for the poison to take effect. The silence stretched. She swallowed.
"I feel cold. And light-headed."
"Sit down." He guided her onto the sofa, sat close, and drew her back against him, holding her tight. She gripped his hand with chilled fingers. "I'm here. Don't be afraid. It will hold." Yet his own pulse was racing. While hers was fading. "Forgive me — please. What have I done?" His eyes shone.
She didn't answer. All her effort went into staying focused, keeping her awareness from dissolving into panic. Make-up, colour, gloves — all of it masked the outward signs. Only touch and breath gave any measure of change. Time dragged. Her grip loosened; her weight settled heavily against him. He caught the sound that almost broke from his throat and forced it down.
A moment later, he was carrying her — unresponsive but carefully supported — to the coffin prepared in one of the sitting rooms away from the library.
"How quiet it is. And dark. Is it because my eyes are closed? Are they closed? Is it because I'm dead — at last? My body feels like lead. Then I'm still alive. Something is still thinking… still remembering. They'll do everything properly. They'll come for me. In time. You can trust them — they'll do everything they can. They're doing it for their son. You only have to wait. Twelve hours. Not so long. Not long enough to go mad.
But I can't lie still. I need to move. Get up. Let's go. Where? Forward, back… right, left — it makes no difference. You won't get lost. You didn't come here horizontally, so the exit won't lie in that plane. It doesn't matter where you are. And don't be afraid of the dark — there's nothing in it. You'll meet no one here. Only yourself."
She jerks awake from the sensation of falling backwards — that sickening moment when the body has already dropped into emptiness and the insides haven't caught up, straining to lurch free. A clot of black smoke — only loosely human in outline — hangs above her. It has no mouth, yet she hears it clearly in her mind. It speaks of exhaustion: endless wandering, suspicion, fear from others, though it is only a man in misfortune. It speaks of the torment of enforced idleness when there are ideas — great ones — waiting to be realised, if only it had a strong partner. It says it sees unusual, still ungoverned power in her and could help her master it. That she has the courage and the intellect. That she need not fear herself. That it is time for answers.
'How does it know so much about me?' she thinks. 'No — how does it know so much about those first minutes of my first evening at school?'
'Help me and I will help you.'
'No.'
'I will give answers to all your questions.'
'I will find the answers myself — and know they're true.'
'Let me in!'
'You are not welcome here!'
Silence returns. Darkness again.
Then voices rise from every side at once, crowding over one another, rushing to be heard.
'This is one of your father's favourite books…' 'He killed your whole family…' 'Why are you thinking about a snake?' 'Why did you choose this particular House?' 'Evelyn Greenwood-Riddle!'
A pair of vast serpent eyes appears out of nowhere, fixed on her in puzzled attention. A chill runs the length of her spine. In their reflection she sees an elderly wizard quietly drawing back the hand that holds his wand, hiding it within his robe.
'Don't turn towards them. Don't stand still. Go!'
"What is that?"
'They were fervent believers in blood status as well. There was a time they were even accused of using dark magic… It's strange they refused him.'
'You're not thinking of joining him, are you?' In a half-dark room, two figures stand facing one another. Torches burn along three walls; the fourth is made entirely of windows, rain trembling across the panes. In the restless firelight, heavy wooden furniture, stern portrait faces, and the folds of the speakers' robes seem to shift and breathe. Their own faces remain hidden — the grey-haired man stands with his back to the other. 'You stayed away for so many years. Why now…?' She knows that voice. 'Far too many. And that was a mistake. You can see for yourself where it's brought us. We must act before it's too late…'
'One spell was used on you…' 'The killing one.' 'Why are you so certain?' 'Because I remember.'
The grey-haired man gives a small, almost invisible signal. A thread of silver flickers across the windows — a fox leaps into the dark, a capercaillie bursts after it. 'Run!' A woman — no longer young — clutching a child to her chest races down a corridor into the depths of the house. She opens one of many doors, lays the girl gently in a cradle, kisses her, and runs out again, closing the door behind her. Darkness. She is afraid because her mother was afraid. She feels alone because the house has fallen silent, as if emptied of people. She cries, but no one comes. A bright light cuts through the dark. It draws nearer, resolving into the shape of a horse with a slender spiral horn and wide wings along its powerful back. It folds its wings around her. She grows calm. Through the silver veil of feathers she sees a flash of green light rushing toward them — then everything is swallowed by it.
'Someone wanted you to survive very badly…'
A man kneels beside the cradle, shoulders shaking, tears running down his handsome, familiar face. It feels strange — she can see him, but he cannot see her.
'I had to adjust the reporter's memory a little…'
'Don't you see — she's one of us.' The Headmaster and both Heads of House lean forward, waiting for her answer.
She and her guardians enter the wandmaker's shop. The counter stands unattended; the hall is empty. 'Just a moment! I'll be right with you!' Following the voice, she reaches an open door at the back. Inside, the master speaks in low tones with an elderly man with long grey hair and beard. The craftsman notices her and nods with a smile — which fades as the other man says something further. He tries to look at her again, but cannot quite bring himself to do it. She leaves them to their talk.
'There's nothing to worry about.' 'What if I am what they all say I am?' 'The monster's daughter. A monster yourself!' 'As if you can run away from yourself…'
She bends over a blood-soaked body, breathing in the metallic scent, tasting it at the back of her throat. 'Did it happen by day or by night? Did I kill him while he was already a wolf, or still a man?' He groans and reaches a weakened hand toward her. 'Did he beg for mercy? Did he say anything before he died?'
'You're leaving school at once… You'll spend the whole summer somewhere neither they nor the Ministry would ever think to look. You nearly fell into their hands once — we won't risk it again. No meetings, no letters. You'll stay quiet and keep out of sight'
'It was because of him that I killed — because he was afraid I'd be discovered.'
'The old man knew you would do it — that you are capable of it. He never doubted you…' The bloodied figure exhales and falls still.
'Why did he make me live in that house… It's his fault.'
"Ah, that's it!" Now she remembers. "My father was trying to confuse me so I would take his side. No one remembers their entire life from beginning to end. Events that carry no weight are erased. Those that do can shift, distort — the mind plays tricks. New details kept appearing inside old episodes, blending with the ones I truly remembered. He had plenty to work with; I'd supplied them myself. The more you try to hide, the harder it becomes — and the less convincing the whole picture is — so some memories had to be sacrificed. I hid only the most important things. Still, he reached one of them before I realised what he was doing — studying my memory through dreams. But I had never seen dreams about real events before. That mixture of old and new, sweetened with happy moments, became an equal strand of the story. And because it felt equal, I began to replay it myself, preparing for his nightly intrusions. I showed it to him with my own hands — and woke each morning with the aftertaste of confusion."
Another pause.
The unnatural silence breaks with the piercing cry of a child. It stretches and roughens into a grown man's howl, thick with rage and despair. Far off, a dim green light cuts through the dark. A black figure crouches at its centre, the sound pouring out of it. Then it snaps upright and rushes at her. She does not move. The face — dreadful in itself, twisted by fury — stops inches away.
'How could you? What have you done? You killed yourself — you tried to kill me! How dare you! We could have stood together — ruled this world, shaped it properly — and now…' The laughter is unhinged. 'Now I don't need you. The boy is dead. I killed him. No one can defeat me now. I don't need you anymore!'
She looks straight into his red eyes. Her expression does not change — only the faintest lift at the corners of her mouth.
'What are you smiling at?! What?! What are you hiding from me?! Speak! Speak!!'
The green-lit shadow slowly withdraws and dissolves into the dark. Silence settles again.
Behind her, a silver radiance flares, revealing an abyss laid open ahead. Held by the sight, she stands still, staring toward the point where the light can no longer overcome the dark. The pull downward is almost irresistible.
The thin black shroud over a skeletal form draws inward where a mouth should be, opening onto pure emptiness. She looks — sees nothing. Listens — hears nothing. A longing rises in her, deep and airless: grief for something never possessed and never to be possessed. The need to fill the void burns so fiercely it gathers all intention into itself, heavy as survival. And then — the knowledge — she cannot fill it. Simply cannot. A knot tightens in her throat. The funnel narrows.
The black figure lifts and drifts away without interest. Through blurred sight she follows it — until it collides with a blond youth. 'Run!!!'
She turns — slow with shock — and the air fills with the wand's litany: 'length - 13 inches, body - tulipwood, core..., length - 13 inches, body - tulipwood, core…'
'Void…'
Her father stands before her, arms open in invitation. The gesture rings false — it does not match his face, nor the cold in his gaze. And again that emptiness, demanding to be filled. But the one before her would never allow anyone to do it. But that being is not her father — it is her fear. Fear of the same void within herself. Not in the wand — in herself.
'It is far more important what is inside you than what is inside the wand.'
The maker gave her every instruction. She simply failed to hear them. For two years she tried to overcome the wand's passivity, when it was her own she needed to master.
She wakes with the sensation of falling backward.
The farewell passed quietly. No one had to pretend: the young man looked hollowed out by what had happened, and his parents knew too well how easily the illusion might yet become real.
The girl's guardians, the Headmistress, and two Ministry representatives attended the ceremony. The officials entered the house first, sweeping each room with their wands. Only after they had examined the body and confirmed there was no deception were the others admitted — including the hosts. For half an hour the mourners took their leave, sharing fragments of her life, especially the last year, exchanging memories and restrained gratitude. Then the lid was closed. The coffin lifted into the air and drifted slowly toward the cemetery. They followed in silence.
The procession stopped at the only surviving crypt, so old that the carved numbers on the stone had long since been worn smooth by wind. Stems and leaves had grown across it, becoming part of its ornament. As before, the Ministry officials went in first. When the coffin was set in place and the doors sealed, one of them drew the mourners aside while the other worked a sequence of spells over the structure. Three pairs of eyes kept flicking nervously in his direction. Two of the watchers quickly mastered themselves.
"May I ask what he is doing?" said the master of the manor.
"Setting a detection ward. If anything — magical or physical — breaches the barrier, we'll be alerted. I'm sorry, but the precaution is necessary."
"What the hell? I can't go in there? I can't get to her?" The young man slipped back into the same raw, instinctive panic that had taken him in the library.
"Why would you want to?"
"To see her. To be with her."
"Son, listen…"
"I'm not your son."
"You shouldn't do this. I'm sure your parents would say the same."
"That's not for you to decide — and not for them either. Tell him to stop, now, or I won't answer for what I do." He strode toward the crypt. "Hey — you!"
He reached for his wand, but his father caught his arm. He had been watching in silence as the shimmering substance spread from a point above the crypt, flowing downward like a solid, transparent wall — stopping just short of the ground. The man stopped his son's hand halfway to the pocket.
"Don't be foolish. We already have enough trouble. We're leaving — there's nothing more for us here."
"Nothing? Father — no! I'm not going anywhere until they remove that rubbish."
He seized the boy and, ignoring the shouts — "I'm going in there! You can't stop me!" — and the attempts to break free, steered him back toward the house.
"My dear, stay with the guests and apologise for me," he said to his wife. And once they were out of earshot, quietly to the boy: "Calm down. It's a dome. We can still reach it from below."
"From below?" The shift in him was immediate.
"Yes. I noticed a covered hatch in the floor. I'm certain it's another entrance. We just need to find the route. That's what we're going to do now."
When the mistress returned from the cemetery, she found the men in the library, bent over a massive table strewn with parchment plans of the house from different centuries.
"The tunnels have another exit — the crypt," her husband explained the situation. "The passage must have been sealed. We're trying to identify the right branch."
She nodded and joined them at the table.
"Everyone's gone. They didn't even leave a guard."
"Good. One less complication."
But the hours passed, and nothing shifted.
"I don't understand," the man said at last. "We've checked every surviving plan — the house, the old castle, every floor and basement, each extension and outbuilding — and there's no trace of the passages. They couldn't have built all this without records. Were they destroyed?"
"I don't understand," the father said at last. "We've checked every surviving plan — the house, the old castle, every floor and basement, each extension and outbuilding — and there's no trace of the passages. They couldn't have built all this without records. Were they destroyed?"
"Even if they were," the son replied, "look at the scale. The castle was enormous — ten times the size of the present house. The house only occupies part of the old foundation. But which part? None of these basement layouts match."
"This entrance," the man jerked his thumb toward the shelf behind him, "should have given us a reference point."
"If it's one of the original entrances at all," the son said, "and not a later addition."
A soft laugh came from the corner. The blonde witch had long since stepped away from the table with a bundle of worn, dirt-stained letters that had slipped from the plan folders. Now she sat beneath the floor lamp, reading.
"Documents can be suppressed," she said calmly, "but vanity cannot. This is a letter from one of the castle's owners to his brother. He boasts about deceiving the king and running contraband through ancient labyrinths discovered beneath the castle. He describes two separate systems. One entrance he made through the wine cellars, with exits — guess where — the church and the mill. The second ran from the reception hall to the cemetery and…" She tilted the page. "The rest is unreadable — stained with blood. The courier was likely intercepted. It doesn't matter for us."
"I can barely picture it," the father said, "but let's assume our entrance was through the wine cellars. Where would the reception hall lie in relation to it?"
"Most likely…" the lad rechecked the plans, layering them again, "toward the far end of the garden. Are we meant to dig up the entire place? We don't have that kind of time. There's also a well there — and you never mentioned the forester's hut. That belongs to our system."
"Alright, let's go check the well," the man said to the boy and turned to his wife: "You're very sharp, my dear."
There was nothing at the bottom but water and stone.
They came back in silence. The father was afraid to admit he had run out of ideas. The son was afraid to admit what he would do if the search failed.
They were already moving through the house when the lad stopped short. "Human vanity — of course!" He turned at once and headed back to the room where the farewell had taken place.
It was a large drawing room, its walls crowded with portraits — former owners of the estate. He scanned the painted faces and the dates beneath them, searching for the earliest.
"Looking for someone, young man?" The voice came from somewhere above. He started. "If you ask, we'll gladly assist. You cannot imagine how intolerably dull it is — the same company, century after century…"
"Yes," he said, the first jolt of surprise already fading, "I'm looking for the castle's owner — the one who uncovered the ancient labyrinth beneath it."
A laugh sounded from the corner. "You won't find him here. He was too consumed by his grand project to commission a portrait before his execution. Got himself into a game beyond his skill — and paid for it quickly. Loyalty still counted for something in those days…"
"Ahem," a portrait on the opposite wall coughed theatrically. "It did. You were the king's last rat."
"How dare you! He was a smuggler."
"He supplied medicines."
"Potions! And for my loyal service I was granted his castle. Do you know the first thing I did? I found those two secret passages and sealed them."
"Hypocrite. And yet you paid a wizard to paint your likeness so your wicked head would last forever. Blood was required, since you had no magic of your own. Do you recall the penalty?"
"Two passages — were there truly two?" Another portrait spoke up — the clothing marked him from a much later century than the others. "Damn my luck. I searched everywhere and found nothing — except the hole I fell through. In the forest. The ground gave way beneath me and I landed in a cavern with a broken leg. Stone steps jutted from the earthen walls here and there. I dug a little and reached a labyrinth. Most of the routes were dead ends, but two led out — one to the mill, the other to the church."
"And the forester's hut?"
"The forester's hut? Is it still standing?" He laughed. "I built it — directly above that cavern. But tell me, king's servant — where did the second labyrinth lead?"
"No idea. Nor any wish to know."
Silence settled over the room.
"But… does no one else know anything?" the young man asked. "I need details about the second system of passages. The entrance was through the reception hall — or the wine cellars — in any case, one exit opens into the crypt. I must find the other. It exists — I'm certain of it."
"If you know the entrance, why not simply trace the exit?"
"I can't find the entrance. The castle is gone. And I can't reach the crypt from outside either. I need a third point of reference. I have to get inside. Please — anyone."
His composure was beginning to fray when he noticed a portrait of a very old man with a castle painted behind him.
"And you, grandfather — do wake up."
"Don't waste your breath. I've never once seen him stir."
With a weary exhale, the young man rested his forehead against the canvas. His eyes unfocused, fixing on the pale green-blue brushstrokes meant to suggest a distant structure..
"Wait," he murmured, peering closer. "What's that? Is that… water? And — rocks?"
"Indeed. A lake. The castle walls once encircled it almost completely. Ah — a beautiful and sorrowful tale. I shall tell it."
The young man lifted a hand, intending to stop him, then thought better of it. If he silenced him, he might lose the answer altogether.
"Long ago," the portrait began, "there lived a dark wizard. In his youth he was given a prophecy: he would marry a beautiful and powerful sorceress, cold of heart, and she would bring him nothing but grief. He fell in love with her from the description alone and spent his life searching — without success. He found her only in old age. She was the oracle's daughter — the very oracle who had spoken the prophecy. The girl agreed to fulfil her father's will, but at the wedding she changed her mind and fled the moment she said yes — though there was no lover waiting for her. The groom stepped on the end of her veil to stop her, but it was too long, and she kept running. Then he cut off the leg that pinned the cloth, turned it into a tree, and pursued her. When the veil finally ran out, she fell. He was almost upon her when seven brothers came and stood in his path. In the battle that followed, he turned them into mountain peaks. She would not yield — she transformed herself into a lake, and the veil became a stream flowing into it. The wizard fell into deep sorrow, built a castle around the water, and spent the rest of his days there."
"A fireside tale," another portrait snapped. "The castle was built by a wizard who kept hunting grounds here. During one hunt there was an attempt on his life. His wife saw the danger and took the curse instead. She fell from her horse into the lake — and rose from the water unharmed. He declared it living water and walled it off for himself. The castle was his gift to her loyalty."
"Oh, is that so?" the first replied dryly. "And why didn't she die? Because the bride was the goddess of reborn nature — Life itself — and the old wizard was Death, from whom she fled. These are legends, not nursery tales."
At that, the young man's agitation gave way to sharp, focused interest.
"Nonsense," said the second. "She did not save him. Five years later there was another attempt. He dragged himself to the lake and threw himself in, thinking it would preserve him. His servants found him there the next morning — dead. Or do your goddesses favour only women?"
"Do not place too much hope in any of it, boy," said a tired voice.
It came from the portrait that had never been seen to stir — a man with a gentle, distant face and eyes veiled in white.
"They are both right, and both mistaken. The bride was a goddess — the goddess of fate: cold and inescapable. The wizard was Time, drawing nearer to her day by day. His destiny was pursuit of the unattainable — an endless chase that yields only loss. When he reached her shores, he dipped his hands into her waters. He drank, and walked on — lame, hollow-hearted — circled the world, and returned to drink again. He does so still, and will continue until he drains his fate to the last drop. The lord's wife was not fated to fall to that curse — but the lord himself was. So consider carefully before you touch the lake's mirrored surface."
"I'm afraid I already have," the young man murmured. "Thank you. All of you. Now I know where to look for the second entrance."
Still dazed, he turned toward the door.
"Is there a girl in the crypt — buried today? Your beloved?" asked another portrait, its features worn by long, unrelieved sorrow. "Mine lay there once as well. The second exit from the labyrinth is in the village tavern — the one beside the old road. The village grew up around it. I hope that serves you."
"The castle wasn't here — it stood in the forest. There are no watchtowers by the lake; those are the castle towers themselves." The parents listened to their son, puzzled. "The forester's hut is one of the original entrances — through the cellars. The second must be somewhere in the rocks; they formed almost the entire outer wall. And the other exit from that system opens into the old tavern."
"But… how do you know?"
"I asked the predecessors directly."
"Good. Then we don't waste time. I'll go to the village — you and your mother go to the forest. We'll divide the antidote. Ideally it should be taken in a full dose at once, but if there isn't time, any amount is better than none. Don't take the pendant under the dome, and don't shift inside it either — just in case." The man gripped his son's shoulder until he met his eye. "It will hold. We're close now."
Dawn was beginning to thin the darkness beyond the windows.
Two figures stood before a vast wall of stone, almost swallowed by vegetation — the remnants of an older structure, scarcely less monumental than the work of the "great architect." It had the look of a Romantic engraving of Roman ruins. With a flick of her wand, the woman brought the green curtain down at their feet, exposing the outlines of former walls. The young man spread several drawings on the ground, layering them and aligning the lines.
"We should be roughly at ground-floor level — the soil hasn't risen much; you can tell from the cellar stair. The reception hall was on the second floor. He said he blocked the passages. That section of masonry — there." Another movement of the wand tore open the wall beneath the marked arch and revealed a blackened hollow beyond. "I'll scout ahead and come back for you."
A moment later he stood at the edge of the opening. A beam of light cut into the dark, catching a run of hanging metal steps slung from block to block. Testing each before trusting his weight to it, he began his descent. Ground level. Lower chambers. The depth of the known system. Bottom. A tunnel.
"I've found it."
They entered the corridor — damp, dark, not involving self-lit — and walked together as far as the first fork.
"We split here. Leave marks so we know where we've been."
"Take care."
"You too… Mum. Thank you."
For hours the three wizards moved through the labyrinth's depths — crossing one another's marks, rediscovering their own, meeting wall after wall. Their time was nearly spent; no messenger came; nerves wore thin. At last panic took hold of the young man. He began rushing from fork to fork he half-recognised, choosing passages at random, leaving no signs, ignoring those already there. When he struck yet another dead end, he lost control and blasted the stones in a surge of rage and despair — only to be flung back by the recoil. He staggered up, turned, and forced his way out of the tunnel system.
Twisting tree trunks rose before him. A few steady strides — and they opened into an avenue ending at a tall wrought-iron gate. A few more — and the shimmering dome showed at the far end of the road. He moved toward it without slowing, eyes fixed, breath coming hot and sharp, anger stiffening into resolve. Halfway there, a glowing dove darted into his path and circled him insistently.
"Oh — Mother." The words broke from him in relief.
The woman stood beside the open coffin, pale, shifting the vial from hand to hand, fingers tightening and loosening around it. A man reached her at a run, breathless.
"You're here already. Did you give your part?"
She shook her head.
He searched her face; she held his gaze in silence. He understood what held her back — and what it was costing her. Gently, he took the vial from her hands. She did not resist.
"Don't tell him. Please."
He touched the back of her head and pressed his lips to her forehead.
"Call him — before he does something foolish again."
Her eyes widened as the full consequence of the delay struck her. She turned at once and hurried down toward the tunnel to release the bird from her wand.
The young man raced through the dark corridors after the shining guide. He did not slow, not even at the turns. When he struck the jagged stone of the walls, he used the impact to drive himself forward, gathering speed. At last he saw three figures ahead. One knelt on the ground, supporting another who lay still; the third stood slightly apart, watching for him with strained attention. He reached them, met his mother's eyes — full of love — and she answered with an uncertain smile, then looked away, colour rising in her face. He did not register it. He was already kneeling, taking the girl carefully from his father's arms. He fastened the pendant and poured in the final measure of the antidote. No one spoke. They waited.
After a minute or two, the movement of her breathing became visible. A few seconds later she drew a deep, even breath and opened her eyes. They moved from face to face, then swept the walls, the ceiling, the floor.
"Did something go wrong?"
The air left them all at once.
They moved into the house. The owners exchanged a few quiet words; the young man carried the girl to her room. Bright morning light streamed through the uncurtained windows. She glanced at the clock on the dresser, and for an instant a chill touched her skin again.
"Eve…"
"It's all right." She stepped into him and held him tightly. "It's over. You've done well. It will settle now. Don't talk — you can tell me later. Lie down. Rest." She eased him onto the bed and lay opposite him. He would not release her hand; his eyes never left her face. "I'm here with you. I'll not go anywhere anymore. It's all over. Sleep now." She stroked the side of his neck in a slow, steady rhythm until his gaze dulled and finally closed.
She knew what fear was like when you faced it alone.
Steadily gathering strength, it creeps up from the legs and drifts over the body like cold marsh-fog — thick, clinging, invasive — wrapping and sinking in. When it reaches the heart, it binds it in a sticky shroud. Then it rises to the throat, roughened by damp, and beads at the brow as the same cold sweat.
She knew: on that cold night at the very start of March, the fear wasn't hers.
A fair-haired young man had been sitting on the entrance steps, his hands hanging loosely from his knees, his face drained of expression, his gaze fixed on nothing — reflecting nothing back. She came to him and knelt, trying to catch his eyes, but he did not see her. How long had he been like that?
She touched her lips lightly to his. "Come back." There was no answer. She kissed him again. "Don't stay there too long." Something stirred behind his eyes; awareness shifted and came to rest on her face. "Did you call me?" — "I'm glad you heard."
And she knew: whatever the circumstances, fear is faced alone.
Less than five minutes later there was a soft pop in the next room and the awkward head of the house-elf appeared around the half-open door. The girl raised a finger to her lips. Then she gently freed her hand and slipped from the bedroom, closing the door without a sound.
"Someone has come to see the young master," the tiny voice said.
"Who?"
"I don't remember the name — from school. She was here yesterday."
"Is anyone with her?"
"The mistress is."
"Good." The girl hesitated, biting her lip. "Tell them he's asleep. After what he's been through these past few days, you didn't dare wake him. If it's truly necessary, come back and tell me."
The elf vanished and later returned to say that the guest had left, promising to come again tomorrow. The mistress, too, went to rest, leaving instructions that the children were to be looked after.
He slept almost until dinner. She remained in the next room the whole time, so that if he woke and called, she would hear and come — and he could hold her as long as he needed, until being alive and near became real again.
People came from the school. From the Ministry as well. Someone had been seen approaching the crypt that night; the dome, it turned out, served as an outward-looking eye. The young man did not deny it. He said there was nothing remarkable in it — they had been warned — and that he had spared his mother trouble. He added that he would return there more than once. And he did. It became his habit to walk to the cemetery each morning before breakfast, sit before the crypt, and think — about what he had heard in the portrait room, about the legend, about how precisely it echoed his own position, and how accurately she had felt the spirit of that place.
There were Ministry hearings as well — long, wearing, and humiliating.
"So let me be clear: you were meant to deliver her to your master, yet she came of her own accord; you were ordered to spy on her, yet chose not to for fear the fact of espionage might be used against you; you were to keep her in your house, yet failed as soon as she chose to leave?" A ripple of contemptuous laughter moved through the chamber.
"Yes," came the muffled reply.
It was a process that kept him tethered to the past and would not yet release him to the present.