"Go away!"
The words rasped from her throat, barely audible but heavy with something raw and fractured.
I paused at the threshold. Christine lay stiff and unspeaking, swaddled in the flickering candlelight like a figure in some half-forgotten old painting. Her skin looked waxy. Her eyes, wide and glassy, weren't looking at me. They weren't looking at anything at all.
"She's been like this since yesterday," Mr. Hawthorne murmured behind me. "Muttering odd things, staring into corners. Fever does dreadful things to the mind. Or perhaps," he added after a beat, "it merely gives the mind permission."
Christine's gaze fluttered, and her fingers twitched weakly against the blankets. "That is not my name," she whispered.
Something unpleasant and feathered ran down the back of my neck.
"What do you mean?" I asked, carefully-like I was poking something fragile with a stick.
She blinked. Her expression turned muddled, as though thought itself had become a foreign tongue. "I... I do not know." Her hand fisted in the linen. "There was another name. A different one. I was given it."
Hawthorne shifted beside me, but said nothing. The air had changed.
A silence settled-not quite the comfortable kind. More like the stillness in the woods when you realize the birds have stopped singing.
I stared at her, heart slowing to a cold, deliberate rhythm. A different name? I glanced at Mr. Hawthorne, but he remained stone-still.
Names held power. That was one of the first things you learned in any magical practice. A name given is not always a name chosen. And if someone had taken hers and replaced it with another...
I wanted to ask who gave it to her, but something in me hesitated, as though pressing too hard might fracture the thin thread keeping her tethered to reality.
Mr. Hawthorne exhaled sharply through his nose, arms crossed like a judge preparing his verdict. "Madness takes many forms," he muttered. "I've seen women raving about spirits, only for the fever to break days later."
Christine flinched, as though the word itself had bitten her.
I ignored him and stepped closer, careful not to let the floorboards creak. "Can you remember anything else?"
She swallowed, her throat working hard around the weight of words that didn't want to come. "Masks," she whispered. "They wore masks."
My fingers tightened slightly on my skirt. "Who?"
Her brows drew together. "They stood in a circle... chanting-no, whispering. I couldn't understand the words, but I-"
She shuddered.
"I knew them. I trusted them. And I hated them."
Hawthorne scoffed, unmoved. "Fevered minds conjure demons of their own making."
But this didn't feel like conjuring. It felt like memory clawing its way back up from somewhere it shouldn't have been buried.
Christine's breath hitched. Her pupils shrank sharply, like she'd seen something rush toward her. She began to tremble.
"They're all around us," she said, voice trembling. "Watching."
I opened my mouth-just about to ask who-but she turned her head with a jolt, eyes locking onto mine.
There was nothing vacant in that stare.
"They are everywhere."
The candle beside her flared and nearly guttered, smoke twisting up like a warning.
Mr. Hawthorne stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the candle. Then, with a brisk shake of his head, he muttered, "Damn these drafts." He moved to steady the flame, but we both knew the truth.
The air had shivered the moment she spoke.
Then, Christine slumped back against the pillows, boneless and silent.
I swallowed hard, my pulse an uneven drumbeat in my ears. Something had shifted. What had happened to her?
Hawthorne was at her side in an instant, pressing two fingers against her wrist. His expression was serious, the furrow in his brow deepening as he counted her pulse.
I watched him quietly, hands clasped in front of me, the weight of the room pressing in. The candlelight now felt dimmer. Christine's broken murmurs had left behind a chill, a residue of something unseen.
"She's weaker than before," he said at last, adjusting the blankets carefully. "No matter what I try, her condition declines. I've used every remedy I can think of-valerian, motherwort, even black cohosh... Nothing draws her back."
I hesitated, the unease in my chest blooming again. "Then perhaps it isn't just the body that's unwell."
His eyes flicked to me, the line of his jaw tightening. "You think it's the mind?"
I met his gaze. "Or something beyond it."
A beat of silence passed.
He exhaled sharply and rubbed at his temple. "I should've known this wouldn't be so simple." His tone lacked its usual crisp certainty. He looked down at Christine, her chest rising in shallow breaths, her face pale and still. "Mr. Valemont brought her here as a last resort. If I fail..."
He didn't finish the sentence. And he didn't have to.
"Tell me everything," I said. "What exactly happened to her?"
Mr. Hawthorne leaned against the worn counter, his arms folding like shutters against emotion. "Christine was the eldest daughter of a wealthy merchant in Amberfield. Two years ago, during a grand ball hosted by the Marwood estate, her family announced her engagement to Captain Ashcroft-a respected officer, and by all accounts, a steady man."
I glanced toward Christine. It was hard to imagine her amid chandeliers and laughter, swirling across marble floors in silks and lace. Harder still to picture her smiling.
"She seemed... distraught that night," he continued. "Witnesses said she barely spoke. A few days later, she vanished. No letter. No witnesses. The Captain searched for her himself, even petitioned the Royal Guard. Nothing."
I furrowed my brow. "So they thought she eloped?"
"Or was taken." His voice was flat. "But suspicion always returns to the woman, doesn't it? Runaway bride, scandal, nerves. Convenient."
My gaze dropped. "And then?"
"Almost two years later, she was found wandering through Greystone Square at dawn. Barefoot. Dressed in rags. Couldn't remember her name or recognize anyone. She spoke nonsense. Sometimes, not at all."
The hair on my arms prickled.
"Her parents consulted every doctor in Amberfield, even brought in specialists from Dravenmar and the Academy," he went on, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "Not one of them could explain her state. One suggested hysteria, another epilepsy. One idiot even proposed 'wandering womb syndrome.'"
I tried not to roll my eyes.
"They recommended an asylum. Her parents refused." He cast a brief glance at Christine, then looked away. "They brought her to me instead. Believed she could be cured through traditional means. I used to have successfully treated Mrs. Valemont before anyway."
I didn't reply. A silence stretched between us. Taut. Uncertain.
Christine stirred. At first, just a twitch beneath the blanket. Then her lashes fluttered, and her eyes snapped open with startling clarity.
Mr. Hawthorne flinched. I took a step back, heart thudding.
She sat upright with jarring speed, eyes wild, breath hitching in her throat.
"We're not safe!" she cried, clutching at her blankets as if trying to gather them like armor.
Her voice cracked, and her gaze darted around the room.
I reached toward her cautiously. "Christine—"
"No!" she choked out. "That's not my name. Not anymore. They took it."
The candle flame nearest her flared again, throwing shadows across her face like a shroud.
Mr. Hawthorne's voice was tight with forced calm. "It's the fever again."
But I wasn't so sure.
Christine let out a low moan and crumpled back onto the pillows, her limbs suddenly boneless. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes closed. This time, she did not move again.
Mr. Hawthorne stepped forward quickly, checking her pulse. "She's stable. For now."
I looked down at her pale face, my skin crawling.
"Do you believe in demons, Mr. Hawthorne?" I asked quietly.
"I believe in fevers," he replied. "In trauma. In the mind's ability to fracture and protect itself."
But I could see the way his hands trembled. Just slightly.
Mr. Hawthorne muttered a curse under his breath. "She won't last much longer like this." His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, flickered with something closer to doubt. "The silver lotus is our last hope. If we don't find it soon..." He trailed off.
I swallowed. The silver lotus was rare-even endangered. Some said it bloomed once every year, hidden in the marshes past the Everfall, guarded by spirits or worse.
But if Christine's affliction wasn't just physical, if something unseen had latched onto her... then we didn't have the luxury of doubt.
After Mr. Hawthorne left the room, I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded. Then I moved quickly, pulling my satchel close and retrieving a small book.
Its leather cover was cracked, the pages brittle at the corners. It had belonged to someone in my family-passed down in whispers, read behind closed doors. Hawthorne would call it nonsense. But I'd learned otherwise.
I knelt beside Christine and opened the book to a marked page. A charm for clarity. Not quite healing. Not a cure. But something gentler. Something that might coax back a splintered mind.
Christine lay pale and still beneath the blankets, her breathing shallow. I placed my hands just above her wrist without touching her. The air felt heavier here, as if the room itself held its breath.
I closed my eyes.
In my mind, I visualized something soft, like the hush of a lullaby or the glow of lamplight in winter. I gathered it slowly, then sent it forward in the quiet, hoping it would brush whatever clung to her spirit.
A shift.
The air moved, subtle but certain. Not wind, not temperature. Just change.
Christine twitched. Her fingers curled slightly. Her brow creased.
And then, barely above a whisper, she murmured: "...Nico..."
I didn't recognize the name. Maybe she didn't either.
But her body had relaxed, just a little. The tension in her limbs loosened. Whatever gripped her hadn't let go, but it had noticed me.
And for now, that was enough. Then—
A quiet creak at the door.
My eyes flew open. In one swift motion, I shut the book and tucked it into my satchel just as Mr. Hawthorne stepped into the room.
He paused, his gaze sweeping over me like a blade before settling on Christine. "What are you doing?"
I swallowed, forcing my pulse to steady. Christine hadn't moved. Her face was still pale, her body still tense. No miracle. No visible change.
"I'm not sure," I said honestly. "But I tried... what I mentioned before."
His expression didn't shift, though his eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, bending to observe Christine with the same hawkish scrutiny he applied to every case.
He turned back to me. "You truly believe this method can help?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "I do."
Another silence stretched between us. Then, to my quiet relief, he sighed.
"I don't claim to understand it, but I won't stand in the way of anything that might aid her." His gaze lingered briefly on my satchel, then returned to my face. "Just be careful, Masha. People fear what they don't understand. And fear leads to foolish, dangerous things."
I gripped the strap of my bag tighter. "I understand, sir."
His expression softened. For a moment longer, he studied me, unreadable as ever. Then he turned back to Christine.
I let out a slow breath, careful not to make a sound. Whether he trusted me or not, he had chosen-for now-not to question it further.
That was enough.
As I stepped into the corridor, the door closing softly behind me, I realized I'd been holding my breath.
The hallway smelled of dried lavender and lye soap, familiar enough to feel safe, but my thoughts spun in quiet spirals. I should've felt proud. Or something close to it. I'd done what I was trained to do. Perhaps even more.
And yet... the look in Christine's eyes still clung to me. That thin, trembling thread of a name not her own.
I touched my satchel absentmindedly, as if the leftover warmth from the ritual still lingered. It didn't. But something inside it pulsed quietly. A weight that wasn't just herbs and tinctures.
There would be questions, eventually. There were always questions.
I made my way down the stairs, boots echoing on the old wood, and promised myself I would find answers before someone else came looking for them.