The silence after the city workers left was different. It was no longer the thick, expectant quiet of the observed, but a brittle, exposed silence. Eleanor felt like a specimen under two microscopes now: one ancient and abstract, the other all too modern and physical.
Father Simeon's visit, two days later, was a surprise. He was a thin man in his late sixties, with kind, tired eyes and a worn leather satchel that seemed too heavy for his frame. He introduced himself as the vicar of St. Jude's, three villages over. His reason for calling was vague—a "pastoral concern" after hearing about the "trouble" at the old Wren house from a parishioner who knew a city worker.
Eleanor, her nerves frayed, was initially dismissive. But there was a gentleness to him that disarmed her, a lack of Parrish's clinical curiosity. She let him in, more out of a bone-deep loneliness than any real hope.
He didn't ask about smells or lights. He accepted tea, his gaze taking in the room with a quiet sadness. "Old houses hold more than memories," he said softly, not looking at her. "Sometimes they hold echoes of… arrangements."
Her head snapped up. "Arrangements?"
He sipped his tea. "I have an interest in local history, the older, stranger corners of it. Your family name appears in some very old parish records. Not in the main ledgers, but in the marginalia. Notes about a 'dispute of tenure' settled in 1699. Not with the Lord of the Manor, but with… well, the text is cryptic. 'The Holder of the Old Bargain.'"
Eleanor's heart thudded. She said nothing.
Father Simeon set his cup down. "Miss Wren, I am not here to frighten you. But I have seen the marks of such… tenure disputes before. Not often. They leave a residue. A geas, some would call it. A binding obligation that outlives its original signatories. It draws attention. Not just from the other party to the bargain." He met her eyes. "From those who would study such things. And from those who would… harvest them."
"Harvest?" The word was cold, final.
"Certain beliefs," he said carefully, "hold that power can linger in the sites of old pacts, especially broken ones. That the tension, the spent will, the very attention you've attracted, can be… siphoned. Used. There are circles, very discreet, very amoral, who seek out such places. They call themselves various things. Antiquarians. Psychical Reclaimers." He paused. "Harvesters."
The men with the flashlights. The soil samples. It wasn't an environmental check. It was a survey.
"How do I stop them?" Her voice was a whisper.
"You cannot, by ordinary means. They are patient, well-resourced, and see you not as a person but as part of the phenomenon—the catalyst or perhaps the final piece." He leaned forward. "But a broken geas has rules, Miss Wren. It is a wound in the fabric of an agreement. It can, theoretically, be healed. Or it can be… repurposed."
"Parrish said to contain it. With a labyrinth."
Father Simeon nodded slowly. "A containment focus. A scholarly approach. It treats the symptom. It does not address the cause, which is the unresolved state of the broken bargain. The 'Keeper,' as you called it, may have withdrawn its claim, but the channel is still open. The Harvesters want to tap that channel. Parrish likely wants to study it. But there might be a third way."
"Which is?"
"To fulfill the original intent of the bargain, but in a way that severs the connection cleanly. To give the 'Keeper' what it was ultimately promised—not your life, but a… a validation of the pact itself. A symbolic closure." He rubbed his temples. "The problem is, we don't know what that looks like for a non-human entity. Its satisfaction might be incomprehensible to us. Or worse."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a photocopy of a crumbling parchment page. It was in Latin, with one section heavily underlined. "This is from a 14th-century treatise on land spirits and household guardians. It suggests that if a guardian spirit's pact is broken not by malice but by the natural end of its term or by mortal cleverness, it can be appeased with a 'token of memory and release.' A thing that proves the pact existed and is now honorably concluded."
"A token? What token?"
"The text is infuriatingly vague. 'That which was first offered, returned in spirit. That which was marked, presented unmarked.'" He sighed. "It could mean anything. The first offering was likely Alistair's promise of future vitality. You can't give that. 'That which was marked'… perhaps the land itself? The clay pit?"
Eleanor thought of the dream-map, of the shifting lines of attention. "What if the token isn't a thing, but an… act? A performance of conclusion?"
Father Simeon considered this. "A ritual of severance? Perhaps. But it would need to be performed at the right place, at the right time, with the right… witnesses." He looked grim. "And if the Harvesters are watching, they would see it as the perfect moment to act. The moment when the 'power' of the site is most active, most focused."
So, she was trapped. Doing nothing left her exposed to Harvesters and endless, draining observation. Trying to sever the bond would draw them like sharks to blood.
As Father Simeon prepared to leave, he gave her a small, wooden cross, plain and old. "This won't protect you from what's in your walls," he said. "But it might… complicate the intentions of those outside them who bear ill will. Some of these Harvesters have peculiar aversions."
After he left, Eleanor felt more conflicted than ever. She had a potential path forward, but it was mined with danger. She needed more information. She needed to understand what the Harvesters wanted specifically.
That night, the "trace exchange" resumed, but changed. Instead of leaves or etched stones, she found a dead moth on her pillow, its wings perfectly symmetrical, dusted with a fine, pale powder that looked like crushed ceramic. It was a message, but of what? Mortality? Fragility? Purity of form?
More chilling was the response to her own action. She had, almost without thinking, placed Father Simeon's wooden cross on the same mantel as her clay bullseye. In the morning, the cross was still there. But the circle of clay around the central dot had been subtly scored through with four straight lines, forming a rough square around it—a box, a containment. A rejection of the offered symbol?
The two forms of attention—the ancient, calibrating gaze and the predatory, human interest—were now pressing in from both sides. She was the focal point.
Driven by a new desperation, she used the dream-map she had sketched. It showed lines of focus converging on the house, particularly on her bedroom and the storage closet with the labyrinth bag. But there were also faint, pulsing nodes outside the property—in the woods at two distinct points. Observer positions.
She waited until a moonless, overcast night. Dressed in dark clothes, she slipped out the back, circling wide through the fields to approach the first marked node from behind. It was a small clearing, shielded by hawthorn. And there it was: a sophisticated, compact motion-sensor camera, weatherproofed, mounted high on a tree, its lens covered in a matte black material to prevent glint. It was not official. It was surveillance.
A cold fury settled over her. She didn't touch it. She retreated and found the second node—a similar setup, with an additional device: a slim, tripod-mounted cylinder she guessed was some kind of atmospheric or electromagnetic sensor.
They were cataloging everything. Her movements, the "anomalies." Preparing.
She returned to the house, her mind racing. The Harvesters weren't just watching; they were measuring. For what? For the moment the "channel" was most vulnerable? Or most potent?
She went to the storage closet. The muslin bag felt warm, almost vibrating with a low hum. The labyrinth was holding, but it was under strain. The attention it contained was reacting to the pressure from outside.
An idea, terrifying and clear, formed. Parrish's labyrinth was a trap for attention. What if she could… weaponize that? Not just contain the gaze, but turn it into a shield? Or a beacon of a different kind?
But to do that, she would need to understand the labyrinth's design on a level Parrish had not taught her. She would need to become, in her own way, a scholar of the bindings she wished to break. And she would have to do it while dodging the lenses in the woods and the silent, calibrating presence in her home.
The clock was ticking. The Harvesters were done surveying. Their next step would be collection.