Chapter Thirteen
AGNES
Sometime in the Seventeenth Century,
Thornhill
Mornings at Thornhill are always quietest before the fates stir.
I wake to the sound of water boiling. Not a whistle—a soft, steady hush, like breath drawn in and never quite released. The Monster likes to start the tea early. I think it enjoys the stillness before I come clattering down the stairs.
When I open the window, the fog is still draped over the garden—lace-thin and blue-gold in the morning light. Everything looks like it’s been dusted in sugar. There’s a kind of hush to it that feels sacred. Like the house is still deciding if it wants to wake up.
I pull on my muddy boots and my petal-stained cloak, the green velvet one that smells like rosemary and woodsmoke, and lace the charm around my throat, a tiny, glass-threaded spindle. It pulses faintly against my skin, like a second heartbeat.
The kitchen smells like rosehip and anise, or clove maybe. The Monster is already pouring tea into two mismatched cups, its fingers long and black-veined.
“You woke early,” Its voice echoes slightly when it speaks. “Did you dream?”
I nod, even though I’m certain it knows I did.
We walk through the garden in silence, past the yews and the stone basin where water collects rain and moonlight.
At the edge of the grounds, an altar glows like a pearl in the morning light.
It’s standing out like a beacon among the soft wildness of the garden.
It doesn’t belong here, yet it’s becoming part of the landscape, its sharp lines softened by the creeping ivy and the quiet song of the wind.
I hear the river flowing just beyond the walls, its constant movement pulling at something inside me, something I’m still learning to understand.
I light the incense, watching the tendrils of smoke curl upwards, rising with a purpose that only I can sense.
Someone passed last night, and a soul lingering too long might become dangerous.
The Monster stands beside the altar, its silvered finger tracing sigils into the marble, each symbol shimmering like a star, then settling into the stone with a soft, deliberate finality.
I watch, waiting for the hum of magic that I know will follow.
The Monster never rushes. It’s a patient teacher, reminding me that magic, like life, should always come with warmth, with something that nourishes.
I see the tea steeping in the porcelain pot It carries, lavender, fennel, and crushed rose petals floating inside.
The Monster insists on warmth in rituals.
Bread. Fire. Bloom. Magic should never be cold or sharp, like teeth.
It should be soft, tender, like the touch of a hand reaching out in the dark.
The ritual is simple.
I close my eyes, focusing on the threads—the silver strands of fate that shimmer beneath the surface of everything, connecting the living and the dead.
The tug comes, faint at first, like a flicker in the distance.
I reach for it, follow it with my senses, feeling its pull like a whisper in my chest. A soul, lost in between worlds, seeking a way home.
I lift my hands, tracing the same sigils in the air.
I can feel it. The soul, quiet, confused, yearning for peace.
I call to it softly, a thread of comfort pulling it closer.
I can see her now—a young woman, her face blurred with sorrow, caught in the web of her past. She’s still tethered to this world, unable to move on.
The Monster steps closer, a silent guide, waiting for me to complete the ritual.
It knows this dance, knows the fragile line between the living and the dead.
I reach out, my fingers brushing the delicate thread of her soul.
She follows, and I guide her across. Her form slowly fades into the warmth of the magic, slipping away into peace.
When the ritual is finished, the altar goes still, and the incense smoke hangs like a memory in the air. The Monster moves to pour the tea, its movements slow and deliberate. It offers me a cup.
“Not every soul can be freed so easily,” it says, its voice low and careful. “The weight of the past lingers, even in the light.”
I nod, watching the petals settle in the bottom of the cup. “But some… some find their way.” I step away from the altar, my heart still a little heavier than before.
The threads of fate, delicate as they are, have their own rhythms. Sometimes they need to be untangled gently. Other times, they need to be cut, severed entirely. I had learned this, after so long.
The garden is different now, softer, the morning light has pulled back just enough to reveal the warmth underneath, soft and golden. The air is full of promise, new growth, new life.
I leave the Monster behind and wander the garden, the weight of the day settling into the earth beneath my feet.
I gather flowers with the silver knife tucked into my boot. Only the ones humming, whispering to me. Some bloom red when a choice is being made. Some curl black when loss is near. Today, most of them are pink and pale yellow, the colour of quiet joy.
The forget-me-nots are turning the lightest shade of blue.
I reach down to clip one when I hear it.
Footsteps. Not the Monster. Heavier.
I straighten slowly, every part of me prickling, and that’s when I see him.
A boy climbs up the outer wall of Thornhill, swinging a leg over the top. Sunlight streaks through the leaves and lands in his chestnut brown hair. He doesn’t see me at first, his eyes taking in the castle instead.
I haven’t met another human since I moved into Thornhill eight years ago. My heart rattles in my chest as I try to decide whether to run or stay and watch him. Then his eyes land on me, and I feel my cheeks pale as he slowly grins. He’s beautiful. Like a prince.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. We just stare at each other in silence.
“You’re real,” he says at last, his voice warm and soft like the sunlight on my face.
I blink, breathless, but something pulls me closer.
“I am,” I say, before I can think better of it.
“I thought you were just a story.” He smiles, his light brown curls falling into his eyes.
“I am not,” I say, finding my voice. “I’m a real girl who would like to know why you’re sitting on her wall.”
He tilts his head. “Would you believe I was looking for flowers?”
“There are flowers in the village.”
He watches me with care, and I wish I could turn invisible. I can’t. And even if I could. I shall not, with someone watching me.
“None like the ones here.”
I look away, feeling my cheeks flush, and instead I reach for another bloom. A rose, soft as sighs, still wet with morning dew. My hands shake a little. The petals in my apron suddenly feel too loud under his stare.
“You pick flowers like you’re choosing stars,” he says, and I glance up, finding his words curious.
“I’m not,” I reply, then, for some reason, I add, “Each one carries a thread. They aren’t just pretty.”
“Thread?” He leans forward on the towering stone.
I nod. “Of fate.”
He lifts a brow, like he doesn’t want to startle the words away. A voice in my head tells me to talk to him a bit more, so I do.
I tell him how some petals shift when something big is coming. A choice, a death, a beginning. How the colours warn me. How the flowers speak, if you know how to listen.
I hold up a lilac bloom. “This one doesn’t lie.”
He swings both legs over the wall now but doesn’t jump. He just sits, sunlit and strange, like he belongs here and doesn’t.
“What’s it saying?” he asks, his voice low.
I glance at the lilac. Its edges glow warm—the colour of new things, beginnings.
“It says…” I hesitate, just for a moment. “It says that I’ll remember this.”
He smiles at that. Not cocky—just honest.
“I’m Elias, Eli for short,” he says. “And you are?”
“Agnes.”
“Agnes,” he repeats, like he’s tasting my name. “Pure as a lamb.”
My brows knot. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Your name.” He drops down into the garden, landing softly on the grass. “It has a Greek origin, meaning pure and lamb.” He takes a step in my direction, and I draw back, careful not to stamp on any flower. “In Celtic, it can also refer to someone with hunger. Are you a hungry person, Agnes?”
He watches as I think of it for a second, then I shake my head. “I’m not,” I say, but it feels like a lie. “You shouldn’t be here,” I add, the manor’s watchful eyes warming the back of my head.
His hand brushes the thyme.
“Are you dangerous, Agnes of Thornhill?”
The invisible thread pulls tighter around my fingers.
“No,” I whisper. “But I’m not alone.”
His eyes are calm and golden and wild. They twinkle with what I recognize as humour.
“I’m glad to hear that.”