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“It can be called. It may not answer,” Bryony said. There was a shiver of eagerness in her voice, and I had a flash of an image—Bryony, kneeling in the folly, candles before her, waiting and waiting and waiting for an answer that never arrived.

“Screw it,” Desmond said. I looked at him in surprise. He pounded back the rest of his vodka. “Let’s do it.”

There was something shining in his eyes that worried me—a recklessness, and beneath it something broken.

“We don’t have to,” I said. I didn’t want to push Desmond and Celia into anything they weren’t willing to do.

He met my eyes steadily. “Yes, we do,” he said. His voice washoarse, but it was certain. “Our whole lives are wrapped around thethingin our house. No matter how hard we try to leave, Harrow draws us back. We’re all caught in the fucking labyrinth, and I want to hear what the monster has to say for itself.”

Celia nodded in silent agreement.

I let out a breath. “Then what do we do?” I asked.

“It answers to the blood,” Bryony said. “Vaughan blood.”

“Oh, yes, blood sacrifice. Definitely a sign that the evening is taking a positive turn,” Desmond muttered, but he tightened his jaw and didn’t object.

“A few drops should be enough,” Bryony replied, a serene little smile on her lips.

“Then let’s get it over with.” Desmond rolled up his sleeve and flexed his fingers.

Bryony shook her head. “Not you. Her. Mistress of Harrow. It’ll answer her if it answers any of us,” she said. I tasted something metallic at the back of my mouth. It was not a good idea. But that had rarely stopped me. I nodded, drained my cup, and stepped forward.

Bryony took my hand, holding it palm up, and drew me over to the fire. She had her knife, the little hooked one I’d seen her with in the graveyard. She crouched and stuck it in the flames of the fire for a few seconds, and then straightened up again.

“What do I do?” I asked.

The firelight lashed her skin. “The blood will call it. You decide what you do after,” she said. “To command it or to coax it. Don’t be afraid. It’s not evil. It won’t hurt you.”

I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t. I wanted to tell her that Ibelieved her and that I saw in the Other the dark beauty that she so treasured, but I couldn’t. Because Iwasafraid.

She set the knife to the edge of my hand, by the base of my thumb. Her cut was quick and certain. I hissed at the flash of pain. She yanked my hand out over the fire, squeezing the edges of the cut. Heat scorched my skin. A few drops of blood fell from the cut and sizzled in the flames. I snatched my hand back, cradling it against my chest.

She reached for it again. I eyed her suspiciously. “It’s all right. I’m all done mangling you, I promise,” she said. She took my hand and closed her eyes. A sigh escaped her lips. “It’s coming.”

And it was there. A woman stood on the other side of the fire, the crescent scar of the distortion obscuring her face. Her hair was dark, her build slender, but beyond that I couldn’t say much.

“It worked,” Celia whispered. Her voice quavered with fear, but beneath it ran an electric current of excitement and curiosity. “What do we say?”

“Probably should have thought about that before we summoned it,” Desmond muttered, covering his own nerves with his grumbling.

Bryony, for her part, had her gaze locked on the figure, her eyes bright and sharp.

“Who are you?” I asked, turning my attention back to the figment. The woman remained silent, though her head tilted as if she were thinking—or trying to understand. “What are you?” I tried instead.

“We are alone,” she answered. Her voice was a rush of insect wings, papery and strange.

“Are you the thing in Harrowstone Hall? The one called the Other?” I asked, my voice growing more sure, though the rest of me didn’t feel it. No answer. “Are you...” I faltered.

“Where are you?” Celia asked, stepping forward.

“We are scattered,” the woman answered, looking off to the side.“We are here. Here. Here. Not here. We can’t find—scattered. We are—most—sorry. It is hard. Too many. Many. Many of you.”Her voice fractured, the swarm of insects scattering.

“I think only one of you should be asking questions,” Bryony said tightly. If I hadn’t been looking closely, I would have missed how quickly her breath came, spilling in puffs of mist from her lips. She was as nervous as the rest of us, just hiding it better.

“Sorry,” Celia said, blushing bright. My cousins edged back.

“Where are you?” I tried again. “Just focus on me if that’s easier. Where—” I gasped as the figment looked at me, gasped as the ground yawned open and I sank. I plunged into the ground and below it. Thready roots grew around my fingers, tangled in my hair. A beetle scurried over my cheek.