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A coppery taste fills my mouth and I spit blood onto the grass as the grim charges at me again. This time, I rake my rapier across its snout, and the blade comes away wet.

I wait for the hiss of silver, the frenzied howl, but the grim circles away, its glowing eyes fixed on me.

Then it hits me—the creature doesn’t have fiendblood. It is a spectre, a caretaker, not a monster. Against it, my rapier is like any other blade. Silver has no effect on its blood.

Dread winds itself around my heart. This is a fight I cannot win.

The grim stalks me, hackles raised. It doesn’t fear my blade. It doesn’t fear death. Its purpose is to protect these graves, and it will tear my throat out to do that.

I take a cautious step back. The grim watches me, breath clouding from its nostrils. The churchyard wall is low enough that I should be able to vault over it if I can make it there.

As I glance at the dug-up grave, I seize. A heap of crumbling soil spills across the wet grass. My shovel lies to the side, forgotten. I did this. I disturbed what should have been allowed to rest. If I leave now, if I abandon what I came here for, this violation will have been for nothing.

I owe it to myself to finish this. I owe it to Henry.

Without thinking, I lurch forward. The grim snarls and tries to cut me off, but I thrust my rapier into one of its eyes. It lets out a guttural howl and thrashes its shaggy neck wildly as I duck between its huge paws and bury my other hand in the upturned soil.

At first, I only feel moist dirt. Then my fingers close around something hard, and I snatch my hand away, a bone in my grasp.

I roll away and clamber to my feet again. The grim is already leaping after me, its yellow teeth bared furiously.

I turn my back and run. Each shallow breath echoes in my ears as I race towards the wall. Behind me, I hear the grim’s feral snarls, its snapping jaws. Something snags at the hem of my cloak, and I stumble forward, catching my balance before I hit the ground. The wall is only metres away. I can’t stop now.

My hands meet stone as I launch myself over the wall. Almost at once, I lose my footing and slip down the steep bank. I have no way to slow myself as I roll through the grass and weeds, my limbs thudding each time my body bounces off the ground.

The shock of icy water seizes my breath as I land in the river. It’s too shallow to submerge me, but that doesn’t stop the pain shooting through my lungs. I somehow drag myself to the bank, my sodden cloak trailing behind me.

When I lift my eyes to the wall, the grim is staring back at me.

I freeze, petrified by the terror of its gaze. But the creature doesn’t move. Perhaps it can’t. It watches me for what feels like hours before turning its great shaggy head and retreating to the churchyard.

A pitiful sob wrenches from my throat.

What am I doing? What have I done?

My answer comes when I look down at my hands, stained with soil, clutching a bone stolen from its grave.

12

The journey back to Caelfeld passes in a blur. I crawl into bed, half wondering if my trials in the churchyard were nothing but a dream. But when I wake the next morning, it is with aching limbs and a wracking cough. My leathers and lambswool cloak are draped over the chairs, damp from the night before. The bone I took from Llewellyn Price’s grave rests on top of the dresser, yellow and stained with soil.

When I look at it, something inside me squirms. The churchyard feels like a haze now, but I know it wasn’t a dream. My palms are raw and callused from working the shovel, my fingernails black with dirt. I’ve started something I can’t turn back from.

It’s not too late, Henry whispers. It’s the first time I’ve heard him since I set foot in Wreymoor Hall, but his voice is so distant I fear it might slip away. All I want to do is clutch the ghost of his words to my chest, but the echo is already fading.

Perhaps he is right. I could walk away. I could leave Caelfeld and put all this behind me.

Then I remember the promise that spilled from Iestyn’s lips. I can give you what you want, Alderose. What you need.

It stirs again, the sensation coiled in the pit of my stomach, buried so deep I’m afraid to look for it. Iestyn called it hunger, and I begin to wonder if he’s right. It gnaws at me until I ache, until I can think of nothing else but the pain. I need to be rid of it.

I open the armoire and fetch a spare cloak, thin and lined with velvet. My hunting leathers are wet from the river, so I pull on a cotton blouse and a plain skirt that drapes over the tops of my boots.

I feel oddly exposed. My attire hardly matters—my leathers would offer scant protection should Iestyn decide my blood is too much of a temptation. Yet admitting that strips me of something, leaving me cold and full of doubt.

I move to the dresser. The bone lies on a stained scrap of cloth, silent and judging. When I wrap my hand around its smooth surface, I can’t help but shiver.

It’s simple enough to hitch a ride north on the miners’ wagon again. The faces are different this morning, but none of them pay me any mind as the carriage trundles along the uneven road towards the Stiperstones. Caelfeld fades from view as the track winds into the hills, and soon I’m surrounded by swathes of heather and bracken rising towards the craggy quartzite ridge. There are no painted cobbles or bustling inns out here, just a loneliness that takes root inside my soul.