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Left, Fern decided. Both options were emotional, and both had potential practical reasons but this one had… a lot going into it. 

If it was a case where they potentially had to pick one over the other… they owed Bannick and Aris more. If those two had prioritized trying to please their master instead of hearing Fern out,… they could have captured Fern, brought them here tied and bound with no recourse about it. Bannick, at least, hadn’t been warded against at all through most of this, and had been released quite early. 

Besides, they were people Fern had shared a meal with, had imagined some kind of future with—whatever form that took.

And if they didn’t go now, those spirits might be used against them or Miranda, or harmed to make a point; who knew what Madoc might do? Fern doubted he would be particularly pleased with either Aris or Bannick at this point.

Of course, Fern didn’t want anything to happen to Miranda, and that was the risk… but Miranda was seeking vengeance in her own right. While she could surely use the support, Fern had to make their own decisions in the moment, and Miranda wasn’t exactly waiting for them.

They’d never been the praying sort, but they thought in her direction, please, please be well, and then took off to the left.

The path split off several times. Under normal circumstances, this would be a problem, but…

One of the paths, each time, was wrapped round with roots, like a huge tree had built its supporting structure fully around the passage. The roots did not look well, however. The whole area stank of musty, earthy punk, the ground began to squelch underfoot the further they went. As they passed their lantern over the area, it glittered oddly back. 

Very, very carefully, Fern reached out to touch one of the glittery spots and jerked their hand back quickly when they felt a sting, fumbling their equipment around to look at what had happened.

A small mirror splinter was sticking out of their finger. Hissing involuntarily at the sight, they put the lantern down so they could tuck the flashlight under their chin and carefully tug it out.

Finger throbbing, they dropped the shard to the ground, fetched the lantern again, and continued onward, this time shying away from the rotting roots and their strange sharp thorns. They didn’t feel particularly well about an injury in this place, but this was as big a case of no fucking helping that as Fern could think of. They tried to put it out of mind. Hard when it throbbed like that.

A few twists and turns and false paths later, the path opened again into a room. This had definitely been some kind of work room before—the sort of thing that Fern would think of as a crafting room or a tool room or something like that, but for magical purposes.

This was no longer the case, not with what had happened to it. Lashing roots had torn down bookshelves, smashed vials, destroyed another desk, tore up the floor panelling that had clearly been added at some point, once elegant, decorated in now-ruined gold gilt. Everywhere was a ruin of shattered glass, broken stone, crystals, torn tapestries. The whole room reeked of rot, and Fern gagged, pulling their hoodie up a little higher to cover their nose.And throughout it all were lashing, writhing roots, the whole thing giving a sense of death, corruption, something worse.

An uncanny glow came from the centre of the room. Yeah, that’s where they’d have to go, huh? The fucked up weird thing they should by all rights be avoiding. Fern groaned softly to themself, and began to very carefully pick their way through, trying to avoid touching the roots—near impossible—or falling on any of the glass or other sharp edges. 

Slowly, they made their way forward, pushing themself over a fallen bookcase, under a tilted bench, until they could see what was there.

At the very centre was a horrible, scrawny little brown thing that Fern thought, in immediate panic, was a cockroach, but realized shortly after couldn’t be, not with all the roots coming out of it. When Aris had said a bud, they’d imagined a flower bud, rounded, leaf-like, full of vitality.

But of course, Aris hadn’t been trapped in a flower or anything similar. Aris had been trapped in a pine tree. Fern imagined those weird growths at the end of pine branches fresh and green, but if they really thought about it, they knew that they grew brown and sort of hairy over time. 

It’d make sense. It looked like Aris’s freedom had been frantically searching for its own way out, rotting and unused, destroying everything in its captivity. Fern drew a slow breath at the thought of it, then regretted it as they inhaled the scent of plant rot again.

The bud wasn’t alone, though. Beneath it had been a framed mirror, but barely any of that survived anymore. The glass had cracked as the roots wound around it, possessive or furious or simply searching for anything it could to hold onto — surely the source of the glass shards throughout it. The frame had been torn apart, and while the backing was in one piece, Fern could see a piece of old, yellowed paper that had once been hidden between the mirror glass and the backing. 

They drew closer still, reaching for that, then yanked their hand back at once. A heat emanated from it, like Fern was about to reach directly into the toaster. Their finger throbbed harder. 

These had to have been the two bindings, both once kept in the same place on a shelf in the workroom, from the look of what was destroyed around them. Bannick’s binding seemed to have no reaction the way Aris’s had, but Fern also supposed some kind of contract or written binding was a very different thing than a part of a person straight up being taken out.

Fern had found them.

But… how should they deal with them now they’d found them? Fern stared at the two odd items, biting their lip. Maybe they could destroy them—but how?

Or maybe there was a way to claim them for their own?

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Fern had come here for the journals, but now that they were here, locked in, feeling like time was getting away from them… they weren’t sure that trying to dig through them would actually be that useful.

For a moment, frustration overwhelmed them, anger at themself: for coming down here, for digging into the past, for coming to this cottage in the first place, for thinking that there was a place on earth they could outrun the real problem: themself.

Couldn’t they have gone to stay with a friend? Leaned more on family instead of passively agreeing to get shipped off for some alone time? And now they really were alone. They pushed everyone away all the time. They’d justified their breakup with Trev by finding perfectly normal little personality quirks intolerable. They wondered if there was anyone they wouldn’t find intolerable; it was a great excuse to hold friends at arms’ length, family at arms’ length. They certainly did the same with their family too, didn’t they? In the beginning of all this, they remembered thinking about how they stayed silent in the face of an inanity their brother said to avoid poisoning their own well, too many years of sharp rejoinder reminding them of how their natural impulses were harmful, harmful. They’d done it here, too, made allies and promptly warded themself against them. Couldn’t trust other people. Couldn’t expect others not to be used against them. Even if it was true

But was it Trev who was the problem? Adrian? Their friends? Their family?

Wherever they went, there they were. Wasn’t that really the issue? That they were stuck forever with themself, unable to separate, always listening to the thoughts in their own head, having to make appointments to literally be taught ways of thinking that were less harmful to themself. They’d tried, over the last few years, made various changes to their body, their presentation, their reactions, their name, their presence, and it had helped. They liked themself better than they had. But, fuck, to be able to just leave it all behind, to abandon their body and be set free, the thought appealed—

Slowly, Fern lifted a hand from the journal they were touching. The thoughts, now riled, didn’t go silent, but despite that, they also thought: this isn’t like me, though.

Aris had said that the sorcerer was waiting for someone to let him be alive again. Fern hadn’t really questioned how that was, but given that it apparently required a sensitive, someone whose minds were a bit more open to this other world…

Was Madoc trying to get into Fern’s head? More to the point, was he trying to get Fern out of it?

A bit more chilled, Fern put a hand back on a journal. Now aware of the intrusive thoughts, Fern was able to tune out their meaning a bit more—still thinking them, but responding to them mentally with Sure, Jan and That sounds tough, buddy, in an attempt to defang them. 

It worked, to a point. 

Fern quickly flipped through the books. Several were in some form of shorthand that they couldn’t read and decided to leave behind, but others were in English, though hard to interpret in cursive with spotty ink. Some pages had diagrams on them. One had to bind a fairy and another to control a demon on the top, which seemed relevant, though Fern would need more time than they felt they had to parse them. Others were unlabelled, but had various magic circles drawn on them in suggestion of some kind, and an image of a grave sketched in. 

Madoc had been an accomplished artist. Maybe he should have gone into that instead of sorcery and revenge.

Fern put the English journals in their backpack, with the one that seemed most relevant to their current needs on top, then picked the flashlight and lantern back up. “Miranda?” they called, to no response. The wood-reinforced earth around them seemed to muffle their words, swallowing it, and Fern suddenly couldn’t shake the image of the whole thing collapsing, crushing them. 

Ugh. Unpleasant. 

They were about to leave, but as they passed the glass jars, they abruptly remembered Aris’s freedom. That’s right, it wasn’t just the journals down here—a few arcane artifacts had been stashed which might contain keys to releasing Aris and Bannick. They were pretty sure those two were the only spirits here other than Miranda—Bannick had been very specific about the number of threats—but they supposed they also didn’t know what Madoc had done elsewhere, either. Any of these jars could be some kind of personal prison to something.

Slow and careful, they passed their light over every jar. None of them felt… right. The plant matter seemed herbal, more like materials jotted in the journals than anything else. Still, some looked like seeds, and they grabbed a jar of these just in case.

They hesitated, also, over the meat jars. There were too many of them to fit in a backpack, and Fern couldn’t identify what they were or why they were moving. Nevertheless, they grabbed one—with a silent apology to the others—in the hopes it might mean something. If it didn’t, they sure didn’t know how they’d dispose of it later.

Backpack feeling notably heavier, they took a deep breath and steadied themself.

Then Fern took the door next to the desk, their flashlight in one hand, the mothy lantern in the other, heading into another packed-dirt corridor. They lost track quickly of the number of twists and turns they took, and could only hope that this was, as it seemed, an actual tunnel in the earth and it was the door that came and vanished, not that the tunnel might branch or change behind them.

Finally, the path split ahead of them. They froze there for a long moment, unsure of what way to go. Each direction looked as good as the next; the left climbed slightly, the right went slightly downward. 

Feeling a bit foolish about it, they closed their eyes, trying to focus on what they could feel—or imagined they felt, at any rate.

To the right… they thought they felt that oppressive fury that was Miranda. 

To the left, there was some kind of energy, tangled and complicated. It felt a little, they thought, like Aris and Bannick both, but …made strange somehow.

Following Miranda meant leaving this behind—Fern wasn’t sure if they’d be able to come back to it easily, or at least, not until after whatever confrontation was to happen. And Fern wasn’t sure if they’d be coming back from a confrontation with Madoc at all.

But not following Miranda meant she’d get further ahead of them. Not necessarily a bad thing, but they wondered what she might do when she got wherever she was going. 

Left, then, or right?

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“I don’t suppose you can teach me how to ward against you?” Fern asked Bannick without much hope.

Bannick let out a dry laugh. “It’s not as simple for me as iron is for Aris. There’s a pattern. A sigil, if you would, that you can carry that can keep me away from you. I can’t teach it to you because I can’t approach it. So I can hardly draw it.”

“Not simple enough to be drawn by description alone, huh.”

“Not so much,” Bannick said. “Aris could teach you, but I can’t guarantee they’d teach you right.”

Fern didn’t need to ask why Bannick was pushing this so hard. They had a pretty clear idea: right now, Bannick hadn’t received any orders. But he might, and if so, then Fern would be unguarded. He likely couldn’t say as much outright, perhaps previous orders. But…

Well, maybe Bannick didn’t trust himself.

Or maybe Bannick thought that Fern was the equivalent of a Gen Alpha babe with no concept of basic internet safety, except replacing the internet with sorcery. Maybe Bannick was the equivalent of one of those streamers begging you to get a VPN. Were VPNs even safe? This metaphor was getting out of hand, Fern thought, cutting themself off.

Aris knew how, but Aris might also have reasons not to do it well. They could be ordered to leave a gap. Or they might have no such orders and this would be the safest choice.

Fern was so annoyed with all the spiralling they were doing. No more. It was time to make a decision. 

“I think the best option is if I get hold of those journals as soon as possible,” Fern said. “I’m tired, but it’s just downstairs into the cellar, right. How hard can it be? I’ll go in, grab them, get out, ward myself, and get a good night’s sleep after. It might provide the information I need to free you all, too. I just need to keep myself going in the meantime.”

Bannick was silent for a moment. As always, it was impossible to read his expression. “Right you are,” he said after a long couple of moments. “Coffee? It looked like you’d packed instant.”

“Please,” Fern said. They wished they hadn’t had that chamomile. 

They followed Bannick back into the kitchen, where the dishes had been washed far too quickly. Aris was perched on the counter, dripping shadows, eyes glittering. Fern looked between them and Bannick.

“So,” Fern announced. “I’m going to chug some coffee and go down into the cellar to try to get some arcane notes. I feel like Bannick thinks that’s a bad idea because I’m tired. But I need a ward in case either of you are used against me. I don’t have that for Bannick.”

Aris looked at Bannick. “You did not tell this stubborn youth?”

“I said you could teach it. Don’t blame me. I’m being such a good boy.”

Something about Bannick’s phrasing made Aris pull a face. “Then?”

“I should learn it from you—” they could always cross compare with the journals to see if Aris had given them the wrong sigil, after all. “—but I don’t know if it’s safe to not get the journals tonight regardless. But yes, if you can teach it, great.”

Aris slid off the counter. “I’ll always teach someone if it will pinch that beast’s fell nose,” they said grandly, sidling toward the notepad. “Here, please, loan me your hands.”

“I’m right here,” Bannick muttered.

Fern moved over to Aris, offering their hands. “Like this?”

“Hold the pen. I’ll guide you. Remember it. A paper ward like this is weak. If you really want to make it strong you can carve it in something. But this will do for now.” 

Bannick backed off toward the living room as Aris’s cool hands enveloped Fern’s. They felt dizzy for a second as Aris guided them through a strange mark, half-squiggle, swirling out into a circle around it. “What’s—”

“Doing this costs energy. Several things you’ve done already also do as well. You just ate a meal. I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” Aris said. They lifted their hands; Fern lifted their pen. “There. As the iron does with me, should you carry this, you will not be able to interact with Bannick, but Bannick too will not be able to interact with you.”

“Understood.” Fern put that warding paper with the spike on the counter, then stepped away. They grabbed their cup of coffee and chugged a few gulps, and gestured Aris out into the living room, where Bannick was sitting, turned away, gazing at the trinket cabinet. “I was wondering if you two would come with me when I went to get the journals? To help me find them.”

Barking a laugh, Bannick said, “You can’t ward against us and bring us with you. If you want to leave your wards up here, we could go with you.” 

Aris added, “But that’s closer to the mouth of the monster, and a mouth’s the part that issues commands, don’t you know? So really, that’s a risk.”

Fern considered that. Based off the discussions so far… “Okay. What if I take them down, but if I need your help, I’ll throw them away from me. Then I’ll call for you. Will you hear me?”

The two exchanged a glance, which surprised Fern a little; they still didn’t really understand the relationship those two had. Well, at the least, Aris looked at Bannick thoughtfully, and Bannick’s face was turned toward them, and after a moment, Aris nodded.

“We may indeed hear you,” Aris said. “Should we listen, we will hear.”

“We may even be able to follow you at a distance,” Bannick said. “If we have a sense of where you might be going.”

“So I think,” Fern said slowly, “the smartest thing is for me to ward myself and go to get the journals, and then after I have the journals, maybe I’ll have options that can let me ward myself against him, not against you.”

“O to be so lucky,” Aris muttered.

Bannick shrugged. “Sure. I’ll follow you at least to the basement. How far can you get before you’re out of earshot, anyway? And keep your phone on you.”

“We cannot see you clearly,” Aris warned, “when you have your warding held close. So be careful.”

“Sure,” Bannick echoed. “Be careful.”

It wasn’t a warning that Fern had much use for at this point. They let out a tired laugh. “Since when have I not been careful in any of this,” they joked. They finished their coffee, and went to get the wards, putting both the spike and the paper in their pocket.

When they came back, the living room was empty. The whole floor felt empty, as if Fern had been here alone the whole time, talking only to themself. They gave an unpleasant shiver at the feeling—they weren’t abandoned, they were literally carrying kryptonite for these people, they simply couldn’t see or be seen.

The adrenaline was pumping through their veins. They knew exhaustion was just around the corner, but they could hardly even imagine being tired right now. A little shaky, they took the basement stairs down carefully, but still moving briskly.

The mirror looked… normal. Everything down here looked like it was before, except that the unicorn tapestry had been ripped down and spattered with blood. Miranda’s doing, Fern had to assume, but they felt suddenly very, very uncomfortable being down here. They couldn’t sense Miranda’s heavy oppression either, wondered where she was.

The cellar door gaped open, a hole into darkness. Fern fumbled the flashlight on, passing it over the same cellar shelves. “Okay,” they said aloud, hoping the other two could see them. “I imagine it’s on one of these shelves?”

No reaction. Feeling like they were being watched—not sure if they were, or if that was paranoia talking—Fern headed into the cellar again. It was the same as the first time, food items, no visible books, but when they rounded the shelves they saw it again:

Another door, like in their dream. Fern was very sure this hadn’t been here on their first visit, and swallowed around the nausea of fear. This one was closed and locked, too.

And Miranda was here. Fern couldn’t see her, but they knew with a sudden intensity that she was here. The closer Fern got to the door, the more it felt like the moment before a storm was about to hit, a weight in the air, a crackling of unspent energy, a fury. They could almost imagine the woman from the photo turning to look at them.

“Hi,” Fern said, almost a croak. They cleared their throat. “I’m trying to find your father’s journals. Do you think they’re through that door?”

A slow, agonizing scratching sound started against the wood. Fern tried not to cringe from it. “You can’t get through,” they agreed aloud. “Okay. Well, that means… it’s got to be this way, right…”

They still had the spare keys. With shaking hands, they tried a few of the keys until one fit, turned it.

The door was yanked out of their hands by an invisible force, slamming it open. A cold wind rushed past them, tugging Fern a few steps forward; they followed the suggestion and walked into the next area.

It was a dirt tunnel, dug into the earth. It smelled thick, musty, and it only went a short distance before opening again into a large, dark room.

Their flashlight panned over a few more shelves, some of which had jars, but they no longer had vegetables in them. They caught sight of a lantern on the shelf next to them, a strange-looking tool next to it, and did so just in time—the flashlight flickered and went out.

They shook it hard, slapping a hand against it and swearing shakily as the darkness closed around them, but it was no good. Spare batteries! They’d thought to bring them earlier, but opening a package in this complete darkness and figuring out which way they all went was nearly impossible. Fumbling, they reached out for the lantern next to them, hoping beyond hope it was electronic, and were lucky enough that when they twisted the dial on it, it lit up. Dim and flickering, and—disgusting, its base full of dead moths that made a papery sound as Fern lifted it from the shelf.

They jolted as a reverberating crash sounded behind them, a door slamming, hard. They whirled around, lifting the moth-filled lantern as they saw the cellar door at the end of the dirt hallway slam shut. Without a second thought toward their mission, they took off at a run, swinging the lantern, showering dead moths everywhere as they reached it, grabbing the handle and jiggling it, hauling at the door to try to open it. 

No such luck. A strange force was holding it completely immovable. Fern thought again about how the door hadn’t been there when they first arrived and swallowed hard.

There might be no way back now.

That was fine, they reassured themself. They’d eaten, had coffee. Maybe once they had the journals they’d be able to remove that force themself.

Slowly, they returned to the main room, using the light of the lantern to get batteries back into the flashlight, which flickered back on. Neither beam was particularly large, but with both together, it made it possible to explore the room, and they were confident they could even read if they were close enough to the light.

Next to where the lantern had been was a weird compass, some kind of unusual creation with too many dials. They fiddled with it a moment; it didn’t seem to be pointing north, but toward something else. For now, they put it in their pocket, picking their lights back up, one in each hand, and scanning the shelves.

The glass jars seemed to contain a variety of materials: sand, rocks, herbs, various plant matter, dried and desiccated flowers. Some contained meat, red and soft in its jars as if it hadn’t been sealed in them for God knew how long. Some of the meat seemed to be moving, though Fern thought it had to be a trick of the unsteady light.

Slowly, moving very carefully, Fern rounded the shelves, checking each. Again, around where the weaving of shelves blocked the view, there was another door. This one lay open. Next to it was a desk, on which was a dry inkwell, a pen, and several hand-bound books.

Jackpot, Fern thought. They stared down at these books, presumably the journals, their lights shifting unsteadily with the trembling of their hands.

It felt like they currently had very few options. They forced themself to calm and think through them steadily, one at a time.

One. They could read these now, but there were two thick volumes and several thin ones. It’d take hours to read through to get a sense of what each contained, especially in these lighting conditions, and it meant that they’d risk other things happening as time moved on.

Two. They could flip through them and hope they found something of value at random or by narrowing books down. That would probably leave them time to do either of the next two things they thought of, too, but would still be a bit time-consuming.

Three. They could take the books and shove them into their backpack. They couldn’t go back from here, unless they found a way to unstick the door blocking their return. Maybe Aris or Bannick could help? But that would require removing the warding against one or both of the spirits.

Four. They take the books and… simply continue on, now that they were already here. The door forward was open beside them, after all.

Maybe there was something else they hadn’t thought of? Fern wasn’t sure.

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The most important thing was eating something, Fern decided reluctantly. That and water. Who knew how different their evening would look once they actually had some fuel in the tank? And between the drink and hangover and sobbing… no wonder they felt miserable.

They drew a deep breath, popped into the bathroom to splash their face again—looking at themself in the mirror, at their bloodshot eyes with the dark circles, sallow skin, hair that was beginning to tangle—and sighed. “I am so dashing. I will turn every head at the cotillion,” they muttered to themself, an exaggerated replacement for the old self-mockery. If they had to be strong about this, they’d be strong. They’d be so fucking normal right now.

Squaring their shoulders, Fern headed downstairs.

As he said he would be, Bannick was seated in the living room. He had apparently lit a fire and was gazing into the fireplace—or seemed to be looking into those flames, at any rate. Between the veil and what Fern had to assume, based on their dream, was a total lack of facial features, there was no way of telling where he was actually looking. Bannick could well be asleep in that chair for all Fern knew.

He turned his head very slightly as Fern passed, though, so probably not. Fern waved, aiming for casual. “I am desperate to eat and drink,” they said. “Do you want to join me for some supper in a little bit?”

“…Sure, I’ll sit with you, at least,” Bannick said, cautiously. “Can I help?”

“Maybe. Do you know how to cook?”

“I’ve done it plenty. Aris is better at cleaning up, though.”

Aris—shit, that’s right. Aris should also probably be warned that Miranda was out now and on the war path. Determinedly, Fern shook up another bottle of Gatorade water and got some water on for tea. They opened the peanut butter container, too, digging a spoon in. They needed food now and the rest could wait. “Sure. I’d love that. Can you make something that’s high protein but that maybe Aris would still eat?”

“Aris? Why?” Bannick seemed taken aback.

“I’m not going to invite you to dinner and not them. That’d be rude of me,” Fern said. They stuck the peanut butter spoon in their mouth, rendering them incapable of speech for the time, and checked their phone.

Fully charged, thankfully, not that it was super useful at the moment. Bannick was examining the state of the fridge and cupboard. He looked bizarre like this, in Fern’s pj shorts, gangly and long and strange, like he should be creeping around corners or unfurling from cupboards instead of lifting out packaged items and making disapproving noises at the groceries Fern had brought. 

“Don’t be fooled into thinking that because Aris is a nature spirit, they only eat vegetables and sup on the morning dew,” Bannick was saying. “Nature has a bloody tooth. They’ll eat most things that you would, so long as it’s unsalted.”

Come to think of it, Aris had asked Fern to turn the salt out of their pockets earlier. Fern swallowed the mouthful of peanut butter and washed it down with some Gatorade. “You said you can listen through my phone?”

“Sure. It’s communications. Your phone’s listening to you basically all the time these days, so I can too,” Bannick said. He seemed pleased by discovering the steak that Fern had put in the fridge earlier. The steak was a two pack; Fern had planned on leftovers, but might as well share it. 

“Could you hear what we were talking about when I was in with Aris?” Fern began to lick the spoon clean.

“That I couldn’t,” Bannick said, turning, his voice odd for a moment. “That was Aris’s personal space. Both they and I carved out a little part of ourselves to stay in after we were trapped. An echo or a memory of where we should be. If Aris is trying to reach out, and I am too, we could touch in the radio, in a sense. But I can’t dip my fingers into their space to spy.”

That was interesting data at least. They flipped the now-empty spoon into the sink. “Okay. I’ll be back shortly.”

“You can use mine, if you want,” Bannick offered.

Fern paused halfway out the room. “Sorry?”

“Well, you don’t have to,” Bannick said quickly. “But you’ll need to sleep sometime. At least then you’d know only I could reach you.”

So mine was that personal space he’d mentioned. It was hard to say if Fern’s instinctive discomfort with the idea was due to their recent fear of Bannick, their knowledge that Bannick was the one they didn’t have any protection from, or simply the idea of going into some kind of prison mirror world that Bannick had protested about before. But it wasn’t necessarily a terrible idea.

“Do you think it’s safe for me to sleep tonight?” Fern said slowly.

“I mean, I think on a basic level everything’s going to get harder and harder for you if you don’t,” Bannick said lightly. “You humans need a certain amount of it and you’ve been spending your own energy recently like you just won the lottery. But if you want to stay awake, I won’t stop you. Ah, if you mean in general…”

“Yeah, in general, do you think I’ll get eaten in my sleep if I tried to sleep,” Fern said dryly.

That earned them a snorted laugh. “Maybe not. I don’t think that man’s got enough hooks in you to just kill you outright, not quite yet. Maybe tomorrow. So… hm. Sure, you could probably do that. You might consider warding yourself against me and Aris, but other than that…”

Fern hesitated. “What about warding myself against… him?”

“I don’t know how to do that, and neither does Aris, or surely we’d both have had an easier time of it,” Bannick said. “If it’s anywhere, that information would be in his journals as well.”

“I’ll try to figure out what’s best,” Fern said. “I’ll be right back. Can you watch the iron spike for me?”

“Oh, sure,” Bannick said. “It doesn’t do anything to me. Better than letting it out of sight, that’s for sure.”

This was half a test as anything else. Fern put it down on the counter, and headed outside.

The tree was, obviously, where Fern had left it. With the spike gone, Fern could feel a strange sort of pressure from it, like it took up too much space, or maybe too little. “Aris,” they called. “Can we speak?”

A shadowed head and neck emerged from the tree. “Oh, we can! How are you feeling on this fine autumn eve?”

“…Fine,” Fern said, again reminded that they hadn’t been warned about the hangover, at least. “I released Miranda. She’s hunting for Madoc now.”

A sharp sound, something related to a laugh only distantly and probably the wrong side of the blanket. “I heard. It would have been hard to miss. I wish her luck of it and yet I fear what she might do.”

Fern didn’t think they could manage to explain their reasons again. They changed the subject instead, since Aris didn’t seem surprised either way. “Bannick is making dinner. We were wondering if you’d like to join us.”

“You, plural, were wondering,” Aris repeated, that strange lilt abruptly falling from their voice.

Fern shrugged. “I was, and Bannick didn’t protest,” they said. “There will be meat. Not sure what else is going to be there, but if that sounds amenable, you’re welcome to it.”

“…Then I’ll accept.”

“Cool,” Fern said, and stepped back.

Finally, Aris moved away from the tree. They somehow both looked the same as their regal self that Fern had seen inside the tree, but also different. They were small in both cases, but where they’d glided inside, they crept here, and darted, and slid through the air like they were moving from shadow to shadow. There was no gemstone gleam to anything, but a darkness that clung to them, making tattered clothing where once Aris had been wearing diaphanous robes.

It would be rude to comment on it, so Fern didn’t, just leading them inside. The spike was where they’d left it in the kitchen. Aris didn’t look at it.

“Food’s about done,” Bannick said. “I fried up the steaks. Didn’t have time to marinate, but I made a chimichurri sauce. Uncanned some chickpeas and beans you had here to make a bean salad under it. Bone apple teeth.”

“That’s hardly the term, and I know that you know it,” Aris sighed, flowing into a seat, crouching there with glittering eyes.

“I regret not having a real bone apple for your highness,” Bannick said, putting a plate in front of Aris, then Fern. He followed up by handing out beverages—not beer, this time, but a chamomile tea with the water that Fern had boiled.

Fern mostly stayed quiet, eating slowly and watching the two of them banter. They had an odd energy, but it was different again with them together than it was with either of them talking about the other when apart. More like the original talk on that radio, like they were catching up.

“Actually surprised you came.”

“I was politely invited; why would I not come?”

“To eat food served by a beast such as myself?”

“O, and do I not usually get food from beasts, Bannick?”

“You got me there, Aris. Tell me, is it to your taste?”

“A rare meat, served red and waiting for the knife? Yes, despite my desire to find fault, you’ve served my desires flawlessly.”

It all seemed to not particularly mean anything except to exchange words when they usually couldn’t. Like they were taking pleasure in the flow of conversation itself in person. Fern was reminded of a pair of Shakespearean fools.

Fern could get used to this. It felt like a nice thought. A foolish one, but nice. Maybe it would be possible, they mused. They needed to find Madoc’s journals anyway, to find out if there was something in his notes they could use. Not that Fern wanted to be binding or controlling any spirits… but maybe the notes would teach them of other ways, things they could do to help these two stay around willingly. Better offerings, or whatever.

Maybe it could teach them other things, too. Ways to right wrongs…

Fern realized abruptly they’d finished their entire meal. It had been delicious; Bannick was surprisingly good as a cook. They hadn’t watched the others eat, and had no idea how Bannick, at least, had disappeared his food, but the other two plates were empty as well.

“I will clean,” Aris said, taking the plates and sweeping them away, scuttling oddly toward the kitchen.

“Has to be balanced,” Bannick remarked to Fern under his breath. He jerked his head toward the living room. “C’mere.”

Fern followed him out. “What is it?”

“Have you thought more about it? What you plan to do now?”

Sure, but it wasn’t like Fern had come to any conclusions. They felt like they’d got a second wind, like the conversation—and probably the food—had re-energized them, but they knew themself well enough to know that there was no telling how long that would last, and the crash after it would be very real. 

So. They could sleep in their room. If so, should they ward themself, and against whom? Warding themself against Aris would prevent Aris from helping them if needed, but also prevent Aris from harming them if ordered. And they currently only knew how to ward against Aris, not Bannick, though Bannick had mentioned Aris could probably provide a ward against Bannick… or the journals could. There was no way that Fern had heard of to ward against Miranda or against Madoc. They could also sleep unwarded; they did feel like they had an alliance with both now. Maybe even a bond.

They could instead ignore the warding entirely and go into Bannick’s theoretically horrible mirror realm to sleep there, if they felt being fully under Bannick’s care was a good idea here.

Or they could risk going into the cellars to find those journals to see if there was information they could use to protect themself. The journals might even have information on more general wards, or things that could be used against Madoc. The risk was …what if the crash came while they were still down there? They might make some foolish mistakes. Of course, they could ask Bannick or Aris to come with them, though they weren’t sure if that too had its own risks, and again, that would involve being unwarded…

They were twisting themself in knots over something as simple as sleeping.

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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Fern headed back into the spare room, but stopped short after taking a step inside. It was dark, and the lights refused to come on, which might be a power issue with the breaker, or it might be something more haunt-related. They didn’t like either option. 

Either way, there was still just enough fading sunlight through the window for them to see what they were doing. They sat outside the wardrobe—abruptly reminded about the position they’d just been in with Bannick, though this cast them, uncomfortably, in Bannick’s position: the one holding the power over the other who was locked in, the one who had more answers than not.

“Hi, Miranda,” they said softly. “I’m back.”

A soft groan came from the inside, followed by a slow scratching sound that set Fern’s nerves on edge. They gritted their teeth.

The desire was to get through this as quickly as possible, ripping off a bandage to avoid hurting themself more. But they couldn’t possibly do that, and knew it. That would hurt Miranda more, even if it spared them the emotional work of it. They had to be slow, cautious, sympathetic, delicate as a surgeon. Were surgeons this tired when they worked?

“I hope I didn’t come back too soon. I didn’t want to leave you waiting all night in case you needed more information.”

No answer. 

“I was thinking I would tell you more about yourself. About myself, too, and the situation I’ve found myself in,” Fern said slowly. “And then I’ll let you free. Okay?”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Fern tried not to jolt away from the wardrobe doors at the sound. Trying to calm the frantic pace of their heart, they wondered if she was answering aloud less so she could save her energy for what was coming, or she was simply too depressed to speak.

“I need to tell you what I know about your life,” Fern began.

They tried not to leave anything out, providing details as they knew it. That Miranda’s father had been kicked out of a town. That Miranda, a loyal daughter, had gone with him, but he was cruel and absent, and she was bored and lonely, and the spirits he had bound to obey him were her company. That she and another had…

Fern didn’t want to overstate it, and didn’t want to shame her. Just tried to approach it gently, softly. 

…had found some comfort in each other as lovers, had tried to find things to enjoy even in these circumstances. Unfortunately, it got Miranda with child. Her father disapproved, and forbade even those pleasures. Miranda was reduced to caring for the child alone, and then, when the child was weaned…

Fern had been pausing throughout for questions, but wasn’t getting any. Occasionally they heard a sigh, or a gasp, or a groan, or a sob, and, when they hesitated too long to see if Miranda was okay, if they should stop, instead they got a sharply hissed, “Go on.”

So they went on. “And then when the child was weaned… he killed you, Miranda.” Soft and sympathetic. Hurt. Hurt for her, hurt for the life she could have had and never got to experience. “He sacrificed you for greater power to keep harming others, using the spirits he had bound to him like weapons. I am so, so sorry. You deserved so much more.”

That got a reaction, a sob that raised into a shriek, hands slapping on the other side of the wardrobe. Then a few gasping breaths, as if she’d been left strangled by the realization of her own death, her own victimhood. 

Fern swallowed around their fear. “I have… a picture of you and him. If it helps.” They hesitated, the photo in their hands. “I’m really so sorry,” they added. “I didn’t know about any of this before… I’m a guest, I was invited to stay here. And now I’ve been trapped the way you were. He wants to hurt me too, I’ve been told. I’m trying to survive it. I wish you could have. I want to help you however I can now.”

“Like me…”

“I think… if he has his way… if I’m not dead, I’ll very much wish I was. I don’t think much of me will survive whatever he has planned,” Fern said softly. “I’m not doing this for your help, but if you’ll help me, or at least spare me… I just want to live.”

“To live…”

“Here’s the man who did this to you.” Hands shaking, Fern slid the photo of Miranda and her father through the wardrobe door. They didn’t hear it slide down. After a moment, the wardrobe rocked so hard that Fern thought it might fall onto them, sending them scrambling back in a panic until all sound and movement ceased.

“Miranda…?” they asked.

A long, ragged breath. Then, almost on the edge of actual hearing, painful while still nearly inaudible: “LET. ME. OUT.”

They weren’t going to disobey a direct command, not and risk redirecting that rage back on their own head, not and ignore her begging the way her own father surely had. With fumbling, trembling hands, they took out the key they’d found under the bed and unlocked the ornate lock on the wardrobe.

The moment the key had turned, the lock snapped off with violent force. Fern fell back, covering their face as the metal was flung past their head with the speed of a shot, as the doors slammed open with a crashing sound. Their ears throbbed with the intensity of the scream that emanated from within. The world was shaking, crashing around them; they tucked themself as small as they could as glass shattered around the room.

Then all was silent.

Slowly, Fern uncurled. It took another moment for them to dare look around themself. 

The room had been trashed in an instant, belongings thrown everywhere, mirrors shattered, bedding rent and torn. In front of them, the wardrobe doors gaped open. It was empty, but for a far-too-large bloodstain soaked into the wood at the base, and scratch marks all over the inside.

Fern’s eyes were stinging. Their breath was coming irregularly, tight, hard. Those scratches were burned into their vision. They couldn’t stop imagining the slow death it implied. Their throat felt thick with screams they didn’t dare let out.

Slowly, they got up and backed out of the room, shutting it again behind them. The “OWNER’S STORAGE, NOT FOR RENTERS USE.” sign fluttered as they shut it.

The sense of fear and oppression faded once they were out, and they felt a spike of… maybe hope, even, though if they focused and listened, it sounded like they could hear someone searching through room after room.

Trying to find her father, maybe. Fern hoped she did. Hoped that by letting her out, this was all over, with no more input needed from them.

They weren’t sure what to do next, anyway. They were so tired, running out of steam. Not hungry, but they knew a good part of how they were feeling had to be from how little they’d eaten today. They should probably eat something, and—and then what?

Have a conversation with Bannick again, who was hanging out in the living room right next to the kitchen? It’d be weird to ignore him, but maybe they could feign a headache and just take their food elsewhere. Go out to try to communicate with Aris again? 

Or go down to the cellar to try to find those journals, and some kind of ward they could use in it to protect against Bannick, if needed?

Or maybe just sleep. God knew they needed it.

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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