"You have no right to be here, Kavanagh." The steward’s voice was a dry scrape, like sand on slate. I did not answer. I stood in the cellar, the air thick with the damp rot of peat and old stone, my left hand clamped against my thigh. It was bleeding. Not a cut, not a scratch, just a slow, steady weep from the palm, as if the skin had simply decided to give up. I had come for the deed to the land, the one my father had worked until his lungs turned to ash. The steward, a man named Connolly with eyes like wet flint, looked at my hand, then at the ledger in his grip. The book had two handwritings, one sharp and modern, the other looping and faded. "The debt was paid," I said. My voice sounded thin in the narrow space. "Your records say otherwise." Connolly laughed, a short, barking sound. "Records are the law, Padraig. The land is forfeit." I reached for the quill he held, but my hand swelled, the veins bulging purple beneath the skin. The ink on the parchment before us turned black, not with the usual fade, but with a sudden, violent darkening, as if the paper were drinking the blood from my flesh. Connolly stepped back, his face draining of color. "The box," he whispered. "Only the Lord can open the iron box."

I left the cellar, my hand dripping onto the flagstones, leaving a trail of red that the damp air seemed to drink in. I walked through the village, the stone houses pressing in on either side. The mist was low, clinging to the ground like a wet wool blanket. I found Brigid, the village elder, in her kitchen. She was mending a net, her fingers nimble despite their age. I sat on the stool by the stove, the heat drying the blood on my hand. "The steward says the debt is unpaid," I said. Brigid did not look up. "The debt was paid, Padraig. I was there. Your father paid every penny." "Then why is the receipt gone?" She stopped her mending. "It was destroyed. By order of the Lord’s father. They feared the truth would out." I looked at my hand. It had stopped bleeding, but the skin was tight, scarred. "If I show the Lord the partial deed, he will open the box. But he will ask about the blood." Brigid’s eyes met mine. "The Lord is superstitious. He will see it as a curse. A sign of divine punishment." I swallowed. "I cannot let him think that. I am not a monster." "No," she said softly. "You are a man. And men are afraid of what they cannot explain." I left her kitchen, the weight of the deed heavy in my pocket. I did not know what I was doing, only that I had to do it. He remembered, too, forty-seven of Lantern Yard — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠‌‍‌⁠⁠⁠‌‍​​‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​​‌​‍​​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌⁠‍‌‍‍‌​⁠‌‍‍‍‍‌‍

The feast was in the great hall. The air was heavy with roasting meat and wax candles. The Lord, a man named O’Malley, sat at the high table, his face red with wine. He was a large man, his hands thick and red. I walked in, the eyes of the room following me. I placed the partial deed on the table. The blood on the paper was dry now, a dark stain. O’Malley picked it up, his fingers brushing the stain. "What is this?" he asked. His voice was low, dangerous. "A wound," I said. The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. My hand began to bleed again, suddenly, violently. The blood spurted, not dripping, but spraying, onto O’Malley’s face. The room went silent. The sound of the blood hitting the table was sharp, wet. O’Malley stared at his face, then at me. His eyes were wide, filled with a terror that was not for me, but for the thing that had done this to him. "Open the box," I said. My voice was steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "Open the box and see what is inside."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠‌‍‌⁠⁠⁠‌‍​​‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​​‌​‍​​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌⁠‍‌‍‍‌​⁠‌‍‍‍‍‌‍

O’Malley stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He looked at his steward, then at me. "Bring the key," he said. His voice was a whisper. The steward brought the iron box, a heavy thing with a lock of ancient design. O’Malley turned the key, the sound of the mechanism turning loud in the silence. He opened the box. Inside, there was not just the deed, but a letter. A confession. He read it, his lips moving silently. His face changed, the red draining away, replaced by a grey pallor. "The land was stolen," he said. His voice was hollow. "My father stole it." He looked at me, his eyes filled with a strange, sorrowful understanding. "The curse is a mirror," he said. "Of our guilt." He handed me the deed. "Take it. Leave. Now." I took the deed, my hand still bleeding, the blood soaking into the paper. "Go," he said. "Before the mist takes you."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠‌‍‌⁠⁠⁠‌‍​​‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​​‌​‍​​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌⁠‍‌‍‍‌​⁠‌‍‍‍‍‌‍

I walked out of the manor, the deed in my hand. The mist was thick, swirling around my ankles. I felt a strange lightness, a lifting of the weight that had been on my chest for years. The injustice was corrected, but the cost was my exile. I looked back at the manor, now shrouded in fog. I saw the shadow of the Lord watching me, a silent witness to the transfer of guilt. He stood in the window, his face pale, his hands raised. I turned away, walking toward the village edge. The road dissolved into the fog, the stones slick with moisture. I clutched the deed, the paper warm against my palm. My hand had stopped bleeding, but it was scarred, the skin rough and uneven. I reached the edge of the village, where the road ended and the fields began. The fog was so thick I could not see more than a few feet ahead. I took a step forward, then another. The cold bit into my bones, a sharp, physical fact. I thought of Brigid’s kitchen, the heat of the stove. I thought of my father’s hands, rough and strong. I thought of the ledger, the two handwritings. I pulled out the Northgale tobacco tin from my pocket, the one I had bought before I left. I lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the mist. I took a drag, the smoke tasting of tar and ash. I walked on, into the unknown. The deed was in my hand, a promise of a life I could no longer live. I walked until the fog swallowed me, the sound of my boots on the wet stone the only thing that was real.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠‌‍‌⁠⁠⁠‌‍​​‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​​‌​‍​​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌⁠‍‌‍‍‌​⁠‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠‌‍‌⁠⁠⁠‌‍​​‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠​​‌​‍​​⁠‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌⁠‍‌‍‍‌​⁠‌‍‍‍‍‌‍