Rose’s bedroom window sat crooked in its frame, with panes of old, wavy glass that distorted the dreary view. Lying on her bed, Dross Manor’s high arched windows and decorative turrets rose in her view through the drizzling fog, though they seemed hazy, almost dreamlike, through the worn glass. Once more, the proper thunder and lightning that usually went with that sort of architecture was absent, although at least the fog was appropriate.

  Hooks set in her gray walls bore their usual loads: canvas straps, wrist braces, a chalk bag, and a dozen colors of ropes and bands—things she may never use again. Pictures on the walls of family and friends faded to gray in the corners of her vision, just like the contents of the hooks. A pile of discharge instructions, recommendations for recovery, and pain medication dosages loomed over her head on the nightstand, sterile and white, and covered in signatures.

  Her wicker bed frame groaned and creaked as she tried to sit up on her own—and promptly gave up. Rose reached for her phone. It would be easier than trying to yell for help. Yelling hurt. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt worst of all.

  The phone was dead.

  Rose swallowed as gently as she could manage, and glared at the equipment on her wall. Only weeks ago, those straps had meant freedom. The chalk and ropes meant climbing. Anywhere. She had collected them from all over town—buying rope was expensive, but it was incredible what people were just willing to leave on the side of the road. If she could get someone to put one above her bed, maybe she could lift herself up?

  She dismissed that thought quickly. Even the thought of tensing her back around the stitches made her cringe, and… cringing hurt as well. Crying was off the table completely. She’d tried that once, for a few seconds, and sent herself into shock.

  A haze descended over her room as more rainclouds blew in from the south. Her heartbeat pounded stray and strong in her ears, reminding her with each lively beat that the pain medication had faded. The light dimmed, and Rose realized something important. She was alone, and couldn’t make enough noise to get help, but the only thing keeping her from help, from food, from a bathroom, from more lovely ibuprofen, was getting up.

  A tiny spark of fight lit in her, and she grit her teeth around the effort. Carefully, she levied herself upright, and kept herself from letting out a victorious whoop. That would most certainly hurt.

  Gingerly, she made her way through the bare essentials, and made it to the bathroom, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror. Her long hair was unbrushed. She was probably still pale. Her bruises probably still matched the green marks everywhere else, but she knew that if she looked too long at the bandage on her face, that she would be tempted to look under it. It had been weeks. At least three. It might be ready to be off entirely….she simply wasn’t ready for that one, yet.

  Glass of water in hand, she waddled awkwardly through the quiet hallway back to her room, and plugged in the phone, grateful that at least her legs had escaped any damage from the dreaded piano. Rose turned to sink into bed—and tripped when her toe caught on something. She didn’t fall, but she sat down hard on the mattress edge, and had to wait a full minute before the pain spots bubbled out of her eyes.

  “What…?” she rasped, tapping a toe on the crinkling papery hazard.

  The paperwork for after-care was still stacked neatly on her nightstand, instructing her to “go on walks daily,” and “drink plenty of water,” and “clean sutures with the provided peri-bottle and soap once daily.” So far, she’d only followed the last two. The idea of going on walks in this heavy, humid cold, let alone the ordeal of putting on a coat, frankly scared her.

  She kicked at the crinkly thing again, nudging it out from under the bed with her toe. It was another matter entirely to kick it up onto the bed.

  “Ah,” she said in recognition. “It’s you.”

  The package was wrapped in a rough, crinkly brown paper—the old fashioned kind—and tied with a yellow ribbon that looked fresh from the Vietnam war. Over the last two years, it should have collected a layer of dust, but it was as crisp and tidy as the day Mrs. Kettleburn had gifted it to her. Rose gently lifted the soft package to her chest. The faint, earthy scent of leaves, and spices, and baked bread still clung to the paper.

  Rose couldn’t say for certain what had really happened the last day she saw Mrs. Kettleburn and Louise, but what she did know for certain was that those two women had been part of the warmest parts of her childhood, and that right now, she would give quite a lot to have that warmth again. Careful not to tear the paper more than necessary, she pulled the ribbon loose.

  Out tumbled the practical folds of a blue day dress, though Rose had no idea if the size would still suit. It was ordinary and sensible in every way, from the plain, timeless tea-cut to the handmade buttons on the front.

  “Why this?” Rose wondered aloud, and immediately regretted it.

  Forming words made her lungs and throat ache. After so much time, an irrational part of her had hoped what everyone hopes when receiving a mysterious gift: that it would be the answer to a question she couldn’t answer, or the solution to something impossible, or that it would solve the aching, wishing need in her to find direction through all of this pain. But no. It was a dress, nothing more. Something to make a little girl feel a little better about the goodbyes, and the lack of responses to her letters. At least its scent still had memory.

  Dejected, she gave the package’s paper another feeble shake, not hoping for much, when a crisp folding card tumbled out, tied with the same-color ribbon.

  Ignoring the stabbing sensation that shot up her arm when she moved too quickly, Rose snatched it up, drinking in the familiar old fashioned way Mrs. Kettleburn looped the letters in her name.

  Rosie Dear,

  I know your tricks. Steamed at us as you might be after these last few days, you won’t stay away forever. Don’t be a stranger. It’s what the master would have wanted.

  Wear the dress when you decide to visit the house. Fabric like this will keep you from what roams beyond sight, and carry that pocketknife George thinks you don’t use to get into the sugar larder when he isn’t looking—you never know when someone will try to take you somewhere you don't mean to go.

  Rose stopped then, and glanced at the dress. As far as she could tell, it was ordinary starched cotton. Just how young had Mrs. Kettleburn thought she was to believe that sort of thing? And her tiny little two inch knife? She hadn’t seen it in ages. Annoyed but desperate for comfort, she kept reading.

  Remember your promise to the master: you are never to linger past dark, not for curiosity, not for anything at all. Wear the dress. Stay in the light. Shadows are always full of the dickens anyway.

  Don’t waste tears on us old ladies. In this life or another, you’ll see us again. Mind your manners, and keep your corners tidy,

  Aggie Kettleburn

  Tears pricked the corners of Rose’s eyes, but for some reason, even in the privacy of her own room, she didn’t let them fall. It was so short, so unsatisfactory, so very…. her. For a handful of moments, however brief, it had felt like Mrs. Kettleburn was there in the room with her once more, and had gone again.

  “You can handle pain,” Rose muttered to herself sternly. “This is just…more of it. You’re not dead. You’re not dying. Even if you were, it might not stick, so breathe—”

  That was as many words as she could get out before needing to reach again for water. But, even as she sipped, she could feel the lie washing away. Part of her had died, and it was yet to be discovered just how much. Would her muscles ever heal enough to be competitive again on a stage, let alone above one? Could she ever regain the trust of her colleagues after a mistake like that? Could she even look them in the eyes? And her face…. She didn’t even know what she looked like anymore, and—

  “That’s enough of that,” she said aloud, the memory of Kettleburn’s sensibility fresh in her head. “You won’t go there—not unless you have to. I’m—I’m going on a walk.”

  Feet still on the floor, it was easier this time to pry herself away from the blankets. She seized the closest piece of clothing—the dress, and put it on over the bandages. It buttoned in the front, so she could actually get the thing on without too much trouble, and instead of being too small, it was a size or two too big, warm, and smelled of starch, practicality, and memories.

  Perfect.

  Putting her feet into her slippers—because bending over to tie her shoes sounded like agony—she rummaged in her desk for some plastic sheets and tape. There was more to fix than just herself, and it was time—she should have done this ages ago.

  Slowly, gingerly, and praying she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone on the way, she tottered down the stairs, out the door, and across the lawn—farther than she had since the incident—and only stopped a minute when the rusty latch at the back gate to Dross Manor refused to be pried open by anything short of a rock.

  Paul, George, and Clinton would have had a fit over the state the realtors had let the back garden fall into. The ivy had taken the absence of the gardener’s shears as permission to take over the porch, the windows, and several of the flower bushes like some great choking, creeping monster. Wild grasses and morning glory sprouted between the cobbles and dotted untended flower beds. The old fountain had grown a crack or two, and was inhabited by a pile of birds’ nests. An oozy green puddle formed in its base from the drizzly rain that smelled like rose leaves, brambles, and swamp.

  “Nngh, so uneven…” Rose groaned, stepping heavily on the knobbled cobblestone path. It was incredible how many things used core muscles and lungs: things like walking, balancing, and staying warm.

  A few weeks ago, even years ago if she thought she wouldn’t get caught, Rose would have climbed the wall, and run along the backs of the statues to get to the house. She could have gone in through the side windows, the porch dumbwaiter, the roof, if she’d pleased. Now, even taking the main path was a struggle, with nothing but the overgrown, flowerless rose bushes for company.

  She glared at the bushes. “You lot are the only ones I didn’t miss,” she scolded them. “Thorny jerks.”

  As if in response, the rain suddenly began to pick up. Bitter wind rolled in in force, stinging at her bandages. She tucked the tape and plastic paper protectors into a fold of her dress and tried to hobble faster.

  “Come on; come on!”

  She hustled to the back door to the kitchen, a place so familiar it hurt, and turned the knob. Stuck.

  Frustrated, she shoved her frozen hands into the dress pockets, where she found something small and hard waiting for her.

  She pulled the little thing out, and blinked at her old knife.

  “So that’s where you went,” she muttered. “Thieving old cook…”

  Her fingers fumbled at first, stumbling over the old motions, but once she had the little saw implement in the keyhole, the latch popped like it always had, and the door swung in.

  Rose stumbled in with it, pushed by another icy gust.

  “Brutal,” she grumped at it, closing the door tight behind her.

  Mrs. Kettleburn’s kitchen was… well, it looked the same. The antique stove sat sterile and clean in the corner by the pot rack with its copper pots and pans. The slatted wooden ceiling had been dusted and wiped down by someone who didn’t know how to do it, probably in an effort to sell the old place. The smell of Kettleburn’s baking and the sound of her scolding was gone, making the room somehow a different one altogether.

  It’s like seeing that body, she thought morbidly. The shell was there, but the soul was simply gone.

  Already tired, and starting to shiver—which she absolutely did not want to do—Rose tipped her way forward and left the room behind, heading for the upper parlor. As long as the servants hadn’t packed the hook with them, she could pull down the attic stairway and fix the window Connor had broken before the elements did too much damage. Plastic and tape weren’t a long-term solution, but it would be enough until she could report it to the realtors….if they even cared about that sort of thing anymore.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  When the house had first been vacated, there had been a stream of wealthy buyers who paraded across the driveways and through the home, and nearly every single one had made an offer. However, to the realtors’ great puzzlement—for there had been several—every single one of the buyers pulled their offers out at the last minute, or suddenly had massive financial, or went missing entirely, if the police reports were to be believed. Eventually, the ‘for sale’ signs had blown over, and had simply never been replaced.

  Even so, Rose couldn’t bear watching the old place fall into even more disrepair. If the rain didn’t do it, then mice or bats certainly would.

  She passed over the faded hallway carpet—old, but oddly clean, through the front foyer, and up the windy stairs, leaning heavily on her good side to get herself up. The green carpeted stairs had been replaced with red in an attempt to make the place more marketable, but had only succeeded in making the manor less homey, and more abandoned-castle-of-Dracula.

  Master Dross’s pictures had been taken off the walls, making the hallways at the top of the stair seem longer and draftier. The drafts seemed to catch at Rose’s ankles, pushing her forward down the way, past the large sitting room, past the old Master’s office, where she paused, but did not stop, and finally into the informal sitting room, where the square cutout in the ceiling marked the attic staircase.

  “Now if I could just find that hook…’ ‘Wonder if the lighting still works.” Rose muttered, holding her hands against her ribs as she marched slowly around the sheet-draped furniture. “Where did Louise leave it?”

  “You’re…not supposed to be here.”

  Rose froze where she had been reaching behind a couch, and turned as quickly as she could without pulling something. If there were intruders in the house, she’d never been in worse condition to defend herself…but the man in the sitting room doorway didn’t look like a threat.

  He was a portly, balding man with a twitchy mustache, and, of all things, a monocle. He wore a middle-class suit, and old but well-polished shoes, the expensive kind that last for decades if you care for them right. A worn notebook and capped fountain pen peeked from his vest pocket, covered in worry marks that matched the deep-set wrinkles in his forehead.

  “I—George?” she gasped, knowing, almost as she said it, that she was wrong. Master Dross’ butler, George, had hardly been able to move, let alone stride sternly into a room and make all of his 5 feet seven inches as imposing as the man before her.

  “I don’t recall us being introduced,” not-George snapped. “As I said. You are not supposed to be here.”

  “What is it, Gearson, what’s the fuss? Is it an intruder? An attacker? Another of those wonderfully skittish purveyors of estate—AH!”

  Into the room leapt a second elderly gentleman, around the same age as the first, though they were nothing at all alike excepting the choice of suit jacket. He wore a much older style of pants, and boots that would have been at home in the middle ages. His mustache was far longer, and accompanied by a goatee reminiscent of an actual goat.

  He came to a full stop beside Gearson when he saw Rose, jaw agape. Beside Gearson, the newcomer was somehow hazy, which was the best word Rose could come up with to describe him. He had less color than anything else in the room, which was saying a considerable amount, considering that everything in the room not bolted to the walls was covered in sheets.

  “You most certainly are not supposed to be here, young lady. You are early,” he exclaimed with equal vigor.

  “Yes, Didymus, we’ve established that already. Miss Rose here has trespassed before her time,” Gearson snapped.

  It was Rose’s turn to balk. “How do you know my name?”

  “Why, it’s all in the instructions, my dear!” Didymus flashed her an enormous mile, and bowed. “However, Gearson is correct, we didn’t expect you for another year at least! I say it’s fate!”

  She shook her head, rattled. Her breathing had already been coming in short, but the surprise was too much. She sank into one of the sheet-covered chairs, staying perched on the very edge in case she needed to run, and by some miracle was able to.

  “No one was supposed to be living here,” she said as calmly as possible. “I’m very sorry for trespassing, I actually only came to fix the broken window upstairs.”

  “Technically, no one is living here.” Gearson rolled his eyes.

  “You were heading for the attic?” Didymus cried.

  “Oh, do pipe down, you old fuss. Look at her. You really think she’d have made it up those rungs?”

  “It is impolite to remark on the state of a lady come to render a service to the house!” Didymus replied, placid a hand over his breast pocket in dramatic offense.

  “Regardless…” Gearson remarked, turning the conversation back to Rose.

  “You said that no one is living here. Are you guests? I had no idea the house had sold.”

  “We should simply be transparent with her,” Didymus said firmly.

  “Oh, speak for yourself, you wastrel shade,” Gearson groaned. “No, Miss Rose. No one has truly ‘lived’ here for a century. At least, not in the traditional sense.”

  Rose twitched in her seat, and winced. “I think you’re mistaken. There were tennants only three years ago, and you—”

  “What my fussy colleague means to say is that the living rarely have a place in this home,” said Didymus grandly.

  Rose gasped. Was that a threat? Her legs tensed, not ready to run, but…ready to try.

  “Oh, don’t put it like that!” Gearson snapped curtly. “And don’t interrupt! It’s rude.”

  “Oh alright,” Didymus waved him off. “We’re dead, dear. Don’t worry, not like a poltergeist or a mean specter. Honestly, eternity is far too long to spend unsettled.”

  She would have laughed had she the breath.

  “You’re… dead. You?”

  “As daffodils in fall!” Didymus declared.

  “As in… deceased?” she clarified unnecessarily.

  “Yes, yes,” Gearson said wearily, and to prove his point, lifted a hand and passed it right through Didymus’ skull.

  Rose shrieked and leapt to her feet, and promptly fell right back down, heart beating a painful rhythm in her chest. If she hadn’t taken her meds before she’d left, she might have blacked out entirely from the pain. As it was, she was seeing spots again, and was no longer sure it was just ibuprofen in those pills.

  Gearson remained unimpressed. “We’re dead. I am a ghast. He is a ghost—and you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “He is always aghast, you’ll come to see,” Didymus snickered, unfazed by Gearson’s ire, and his hand having passed through his brains.

  “As I said,” Rose gasped, pointing at the door weakly. “I was just going to fix the broken pane in the attic, and then—”

  “And you’re especially not supposed to be THERE,” Gearson interrupted, despite it being ‘rude.’

  “Don’t be hasty, Gearson,” Didymus mumbled in a stage whisper, leaning to Gearson’s side as though she couldn’t hear them. “The seals are already leaking. Perhaps her being here is a notice to move up the timeline.”

  Gearson shook his head, his wrinkles furrowing. “Absolutely not. It doesn’t change the plan. It doesn’t change our instructions.”

  “And what instructions did the master give for an escalation in the timeline? None. It seems self-evident.”

  “I said no! The complications that could have! The ramifications! The ripples! Certainly no guarantee of success!”

  Rose cleared her throat, a difficult thing to do, but her attempts to interject went unheard. She had questions. Oh, so many questions, but if these men weren’t truly here, or were the result of some ibuprofen-induced hallucinations, then they couldn’t answer them. At least they couldn’t hurt her…right?

  One thing that was for sure, was that she no longer felt up to climbing into the attic and fixing that pane.

  “Right now, she could never hold up to the rigors.”

  Didymus shot her a furtive look that…saw more than it should. “Perhaps she is slightly the worse for wear.”

  “Slightly? Poor thing looks like they dropped a piano on her!”

  “Tosh. That’s an insult to pianos everywhere.”

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Well she knows now. So what do we do?”

  “There’s only one decent thing TO do—”

  “Excuse me,” she repeated as loudly as her bruised lungs would allow. The sutures on her ribcage tugged nastily at the effort, and she willfully ignored them. “I’m just going to leave, and you can carry on your merry haunting undisturbed. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I won’t be solving any unfinished business, or going on any quests to settle the souls of the damned. I’m…. broken. So, inform your master that I can’t do…whatever it was that your instructions were for.”

  Gearson gave her an appraising look as she pushed herself very slowly to her feet. “Are you saying that you are not Miss Rosalie Clara Cible?”

  She winced. Even the circus staff didn’t know her full name.

  “Well, I am, but, I’m also…not. I can’t do anything anymore. Even mending the window was a bit of a stretch if I’m being honest.”

  “Yes, you seem somewhat bent out of shape, but that can be mended,” Didymus announced with a wide grin,

  “Mended?” She rasped out a laugh. “I died.”

  “Us too! You don’t have to get all melodramatic about it,” Gearson huffed.

  “Of the three of us, you’re the only one who’s managed to come back, my dear!”

  “Yes, well. It didn’t stick,” she said.

  “A marvelous quality! Truly admirable,” Didymus regarded her with open respect. It was a look that she was unused to receiving.

  “You can’t fix this,” she said quietly.

  Gearson blinked. “You sure that’s your name? And given up already?”

  “All things can be mended for the right price, dearie,” said Didymus, his mustache dipping jauntily with every word. “When your time comes, it is simply here! You need to have something to wager if you want to be able to afford a permanent solution. Gearson, what would you say to a spot of preparation, hm? We cannot meddle, but we can surely assist? Seize the day! For life is never guaranteed, as they say!”

  “Oh, do they?” Gearson asked dryly, dusting his monocle it disdainfully on one shoulder. “Forgive me if I’m a century or two out of touch with life.”

  “Then it’s settled!” Didymus clapped his hands with such fervor that the sheets on the chairs to either side of the entryway ruffled in a non-existent breeze. “You’ll take practical lessons with me, and—”

  Rose didn’t like the sound of that. “What did you mean when my time comes?”

  “Didymus, you morbid nincompoop,” Gearson growled. “He means until time comes for you to be healed completely, and begin your journey—not run off to a premature demise. Really!” He sniffed.

  “But of course!” Didymus cried, as though nothing was wrong. “And you will take singing with Gearson here. Quite the tutor, he is! Outdid all the governesses in his day.”

  “I’m sorry, I…If you’d caught me a few weeks ago, I’d have loved that idea, but…I’m just not in any shape for that anymore…”

  Without further goodbyes, she walked for the doorway, right for Didymus. If a ‘ghast’ could put a hand through him, then surely he didn’t stand much chance of blocking her exit. Before she could test that theory; however, Didymus reached out and took her arm in a show of support. It wasn’t cold, or even solid, as she expected, rather a faint warmth, a fraction of what a living being might have had, radiated from his hand. More importantly, the moment his ghostly flesh touched her arm, the pain in her arms, her chest, and even her head vanished as though flung behind a fog.

  She gasped—the first free breath she had that month. It wasn’t just the physical pain that was gone. The regret, the unsurety, the painful ache of missing the old staff of this place, all of it fled.

  “Oh…” she said clearly, taking another breath of sweet, untainted air. “Oh, wow.”

  “I promise you, Miss Cible,” Didymus said brightly, gaze adrip with a sincerity that gripped her soul. “I promise. It can get better.”

  “How did you do that?” she breathed, as deeply as she could. “Thank you.”

  Didymus shook his head, the prongs of his mustache drooping with regret.

  “I am no magus. I am a lowly vassal of the house. This effect will only last until you step foot from this place. Although I cannot fix you permanently, I can prepare you to be so if you can manage to trust us. After all, the Master did leave you in our care…we have failed you already, so it seems.”

  Rose glanced from Gearson to Didymus. This could all be a dream, but even her dreams had not been so wonderfully pain-free, or so intimately, poignantly real.

  “Who are you?”

  Didymus smiled, lifting his moustache to new heights. “Why, I am Thaddeus Bertrum Dorain Didymus, butler to the manor, head of guest entertainment, supervisor of household events, and descended from a steep line of nobility! At your service, my lady!”

  He actually bowed.

  “Steep, meaning inbred,” Gearson muttered, then said louder: “I’m George Gearson. House steward. Either name will suffice. We’re servants of the master of the house. Bound to his will, and all that. You’ll be seeing us more often, then. I suppose.” He glared at Didymus, apparently succumbing to the idea that the ‘schedule’ was going to be interrupted whether he liked it or not.

  “Sing, and you’ll regain your capacity. Walk and you will run,” Didymus said, stepping back with a flourish. “Return to us at this time tomorrow, and we can hardly fail!”

  “Mr. Didymus. Mr. Gearson,” Rose greeted hesitantly. “Then, I’m in your care. If you’ll have me. Only… I really can’t sing.”

  “Hah!” Didymus clapped his hands together—too loud. “Then there is only upwards to go!”

  Would love to hear from you. Would it be best to go straight from the funeral to this chapter? Or is the pause necessary?