Elinor霍桑 had been having the dreams for three weeks when she stopped telling herself she was merely tired.

The first one had been simple enough to dismiss. She stood in a garden she did not recognize, surrounded by white roses, and a woman's voice whispered behind her: do not trust the accounts. When she woke, she could not recall a face, only the certainty that the words belonged to someone else—someone who had said them aloud, decades ago, in a room she had never entered.

The second dream was less generous with its advice. In it, Elinor watched through another woman's eyes as a man in a study tore up a letter. The man's hands were steady, but Elinor felt a terror so sharp it woke her with a gasp. When she opened her eyes, the Yorkshire wind was rattling the manor windows, and she lay perfectly still, listening to the house settle into its usual creaks and sighs.

Now, in the third week, the dreams had become something she could not ignore.

Elinor sat at the breakfast table in Horne Hall, the great dining room still dark save for the fire in the grate. The house was vast and half-empty—the servants kept to their quarters, the rooms beyond the ground floor remained sealed, and the manor itself seemed to hold its breath each morning, as though expecting someone to arrive who never did. She stirred her tea without drinking it and watched the steam curl toward the ceiling.

She had married Alistair霍桑 three months ago. He was thirty-two, a former rugby player turned estate manager, with a face that the village called handsome and Elinor called distant. They had spent their marriage in separate rooms, polite and careful, like two people navigating a drawing room in the dark. The first wife—Margaret—had died two years before their wedding, in circumstances no one at Horne Hall cared to discuss. She had fallen from the tower staircase, the doctor said. An accident. Alistair agreed.

Elinor had not agreed. She said nothing, because what could a woman of common birth say against the word of a coroner and the grief of a grieving widower? But now the dreams were filling in the gaps Margaret left behind, and Elinor could no longer pretend she knew nothing.

The door opened. Alistair entered, still in his riding clothes, a letter in his hand. He looked at Elinor with an expression she had learned to read: a mixture of affection and uncertainty, as though he loved her but did not know how to be near her.

"Good morning," he said. "You look pale."

"The room is cold," she said.

He moved to pour himself tea and noticed the letter in his hand. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly—the way a man's face changes when he is deciding whether to speak or not. "There is something I should tell you," he said. "Lord Blackwood called yesterday. He wants to discuss the western lands."

"The lands you sold last month?"

"They claim the boundary markers were moved. They want the deed reviewed."

Elinor set her cup down. In the dream last night, she had seen Margaret

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