The moor wind howled like a banshee against the leaded windows of Greenwood Manor, and Arthur sat by the dying fire, staring into the embers as if they might spell out the riddle of his second life.

He was twenty-two years old, heir to a family whose name had been spoken in whispers for three hundred years. In another life—no, not another life, but the life before, the one he had lived for twenty-four years in London—he had been a solicitor. He had worn black gowns, argued before judges, dined at Lincoln's Inn, and watched the great houses of Mayfair parade their daughters like livestock at a country fair. He had been good at it. Too good, perhaps. The kind of good that hollows you out from the inside until there is nothing left but a polished shell filled with other people's words.

Then came the fever. A summer illness, the doctor had said. A week of delirium. And then he woke up in this bed, in this room, with these memories that were not his own pressing against his skull like a second skull of their own.

The Greenwood family had lived on this estate since the reign of James the First. They had been witches and warlocks, yes, though they called it something else in the family archives. They had been keepers of the Well, the magical spring that bubbled up from the earth beneath the manor grounds and poured forth a luminous essence once every ten years. The essence could heal wounds, strengthen the body, extend life. It could also, according to the family records, kill.

Arthur had read those records. He had spent three nights in the library, candle by candle, turning the brittle pages of ledgers that went back to the seventeenth century. And he had found the pattern. Every generation, the heir to the Well died before his thirtieth year. Not always in the same way. Sometimes by fever. Sometimes by madness. Sometimes by what the records politely called an accident. But always by the Well.

The door opened. His grandfather entered, Samuel Greenwood, seventy-eight years old, a man whose face was a map of every decision he had ever made and every sin he had ever committed. He wore a black coat and carried a cane of dark wood, and his eyes were the colour of the moor sky before a storm.

Arthur, he said. You have awakened.

Yes, Grandfather. Arthur sat up. The room seemed to tilt slightly, as if the manor itself were uncertain whether to support him or let him fall.

How do you feel?

Arthur considered the question. He felt the weight of the Well beneath the floorboards, a presence like a sleeping beast. He felt the eyes of his family upon him, watching, waiting. He felt the memories of his first life pressing against his temples like a migraine.

I feel... fine, he said.

Samuel studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, and the relief on his face was almost painful to witness. Good. Good. The time is approaching, Arthur. You know what this means.

Arthur knew. The Well would surge again in three months' time, as it had done every decade since the founding of the family. And when it surged, the heir would be called upon to channel its power, to draw it up through the stone conduit in the cellar and distribute it to the family members who needed it most. It was an honour. It was a duty. It was, according to every record Arthur had read, a death sentence.

I understand, Arthur said.

His grandfather's hand rested on his shoulder for a brief moment. The grip was firm, desperate. You are our hope, Arthur. Our last hope. Your father—

He stopped. Arthur's father had died ten years ago, at the age of forty-seven, of a sudden illness that had taken him in three days. The family called it bad luck. Arthur, reading the records in the candlelight, had called it what it was: the Well, claiming another heir.

I will do what is necessary, Arthur said. And he meant it. He had spent his first life fighting for other people's cases, arguing for strangers, giving his energy and his youth and his health to people who would never know his name. He had been a good man. And it had hollowed him out. In this life, he had made a different choice. He would stay. He would serve. He would survive.

But as his grandfather left the room and the candlelight flickered and died, Arthur lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling and felt the Well breathing beneath him, slow and patient and hungry.

He began to count the days.

Three months passed with the terrible slowness of a man waiting for the gallows. Arthur moved through the manor like a ghost, watching his family prepare for the surge. His aunt Elizabeth would not stop crying. His uncle Henry would not stop drinking. His grandmother, a woman of eighty whose skin was like parchment stretched over bird bones, would sit in her chair by the fire and stare at the ceiling and whisper prayers in a language Arthur did not recognise.

He visited the Well once, in the dead of night, with a lantern and a notebook. The conduit was a stone shaft that descended from the cellar into the earth, lined with carvings that predated the manor itself. The carvings told a story, or at least fragments of one: a figure standing at the bottom of the shaft, arms raised, as luminous fluid poured down upon him from above. The figure was always the same age. Twenty-nine.

Arthur placed his hand on the stone. It was warm. Alive. And beneath his palm, he felt the pulse of the Well, slow and steady as a heartbeat.

He withdrew his hand. The lantern flickered.

On the final night, before the surge was due, Arthur sat in his room and wrote a letter. He wrote to Elizabeth, telling her that he loved her and that she should leave the manor as soon as the surge was over and never return. He wrote to Henry, telling him that the whiskey would not save him and that he should seek help. He wrote to his grandmother, in the language she had whispered, asking for forgiveness for whatever sin his ancestors had committed against her people.

And then he wrote a letter to himself.

If you are reading this, he wrote, then you have survived. Or you have not. In either case, know this: you chose this life. You chose to stay. You chose to serve. And whether you live or die, whether you survive the surge or become another name in the family ledger, know that you chose it freely. That is more than most men can say.

He sealed the letter and placed it in his desk drawer.

The surge came at midnight. Arthur stood in the cellar, alone, and watched the luminous fluid rise through the stone conduit like a tide of liquid moonlight. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing he had ever seen.

He raised his hands. He began to channel.

The fluid poured over him, into him, through him. It was warm and cold at once, like fire and ice combined. It filled his veins and his lungs and his skull. It filled the hollow places inside him that he had carried since his first life, since London, since the black gowns and the courtrooms and the empty dinners at Lincoln's Inn.

And then it began to burn.

Arthur screamed. He tried to pull his hands away, but they were stuck to the stone, fused by the fluid's impossible heat. He tried to close his eyes, but they were forced open, forced to watch as the luminous light filled the cellar, filled the manor, filled the world.

He felt his body breaking. He felt his bones cracking, his muscles tearing, his organs failing. He felt the Well drinking him, consuming him, using him as a vessel for its ancient and terrible power.

And through it all, through the pain and the terror and the burning, Arthur Greenwood thought: this is what I chose.

Then the light consumed him, and there was nothing left.

When they found him the next morning, Arthur was lying at the bottom of the conduit, his body intact, his face peaceful, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. He was alive. He was breathing. He was twenty-nine years old and he had survived the surge.

But his eyes—his eyes were different. They were no longer the eyes of a man who had chosen his life. They were the eyes of a man who had been chosen by something else.

Elizabeth wept. Henry drank. The grandmother whispered her prayers.

And Arthur smiled, a small, strange smile that no one in the family recognised, and said: I am still here.

The Well, beneath the floorboards, breathed slowly and patiently, and waited for the next decade.