I enter an abyss in which I keep waking up from, only to find another terror awaiting. All the things I dread most, all the things I dread for my loved ones manifests in such vivid detail I can't help but believe they're real.

How many ways do I watch Lacy die? Watch an altered, horrid reality of my father's last moments? Feel the shadow of a long-forgotten figure standing over me. Feel my own body ripped apart, stabbed, bitten, and sliced?

When I finally do come to my senses, when I open my eyes, I lie still, waiting for the next onslaught of imagery. But eventually I accept that the drug must have finally worked its way out of my system, leaving my body wracked and aching.

I am warm, and the candlelight is golden. I can smell ashwood and a bit of palo santo. I make a small noise and blink, attempting to raise myself from the bed. Wait – a bed?

I give a start and grab at my tunic, gaping as I find that it has somehow turned into a nightgown, and then marvel at my hand as I lift it into the air. It is healed — or at least, healed of its most recent cuts and scrapes.

What had happened? I can only recall sprinting through the woods, then approaching the gate of the Beneviento estate when I saw —

I breathe past the tightness in my throat, the gurgling in my stomach as I recollect what I had seen – or what I thought I had seen. Right . . . drugs. I lift my hand to my eyes to find them sound, untouched by ants that never existed.

Very, very slowly I manage to sit up. Simply stretching out my limbs requires an enormous effort. So many parts of me hurt, it's not worth taking inventory of them. At least the pillows are very plush and soft. I run a finger over my familiar chalk-white scars, tracing their curves and briefly remembering how I got each and every one, then wiggle my fingers to ensure no nerves had been severed.

Rain quietly patters on the glass window of my room at the Beneviento house, a fire crackling in the fireplace across from the bed. And when I look about the room, I realize I'm not alone.

Donna sits in an armchair by the fireplace, staring at me. There is no smile on her lips, and I shift as I behold the mistrust in the woman's eye. Angie is nowhere to be found.

I don't show my relief. Not when there's still a possibility that I'm in for a worser fate than death.

"What happened?" I ask. My throat is so dry.

Donna seems to notice this too, as she stands and walks over to the nightstand where a bed tray sits, lined with food. Next to it, a pitcher of ice-cold water. I didn't even see them. Didn't even contemplate.

She pours me a glass and hands it to me, but I eye it warily. The Lord gives a patient exhale, and softly says, "I didn't put anything in it."

As I peer at her hand, her face, and back to her hand, I notice a slight trembling of the glass.

I quickly accept the glass with a dip of my chin. With only a few gulps, I've emptied it. But as I make to pour myself another one, Donna takes the glass without a word and pours it for me. I drink through three glasses before my thirst is quenched. To which Donna leaves the pitcher, but still stands at my side. I try not to shy away from her, though I'd deserve it if she slapped her hand across my face. Even if my blood still roils at what that damned doll had said.

"You weren't exactly drugged, as you had expected." She begins, finally leaving my side to go and sit on the divan at the foot of the bed. "What you were experiencing was a hallucination, brought on by my flowers, and my ability to control them."

I try not to look at the abscess growth on her face, peeking at me through the ends of her layered hair. "Flowers?"

A shallow nod, her chin high, and back straight. A proper lady – a woman of power. "You might've noticed there's a flowery plant that grows in abundance around my estate. And it is the source of your visions. The pollen given off by these flowers acts as a hallucinogenic. I'm not really sure how, but it allows me to manipulate yours, or anyone's mind."

I stiffen. "You went inside my mind?"

Donna looks to me with caution in her eyes – damn near fear at my question. I hated that look – like I was some wild animal she had to be weary of. But after what I had done . . . I don't exactly blame her. "If it makes you feel any better, I didn't see it as much as felt it." She pauses, and I see her throat bob. "And I've been trying to shake it off ever since."

"You pried into my entire life." It sounds more like a statement than a question.

It's not appreciated, but it makes sense with the things I saw.

A shallow nod, and another audible swallow. "My goal was to, punish you, for what you did to Angie." Her voice hitches at the doll's name. "In that moment, I didn't have any limitations. I . . . I wanted you to suffer."

My eyes drift towards a wicker hamper tucked next to the dresser. My clothes hang over the side of the hamper. They look damp, but I don't know whether pond water, dew, rain, or sweat was the cause.

"If this is leading to an apology –" I start.

"It's not; at least, not for what had been done in the garden. I'm just providing you an explanation." She lips her lips. "But, I do apologize for what was said."

I fold in my lips. "That's fair. And, I do owe you an apology, for what I did."

Donna nods, her blue-grey eye leaving me to stare into vacant space. "My parents killed themselves after the death of my sister. For a long time, I didn't want to be around anyone. I would only talk to Angie, until Mother Miranda 'adopted me,' as she says. Angie can be a really good listener." The lord gives a ghost of a smile as she pauses. "She was my only friend. My only company. My –"

Her only memento left of her father, of her family.

She shakes her head and clears her throat, straightening her back. "When I took over my father's business, I recreated a new family out of the wood I carved. And with Mother Miranda allowing me on her council, I was . . . content."

I interlace my fingers together in my lap, ignoring the groan in my stomach. I move to fold my legs, but am met with a collective burst of pain. How long have I been out? It was morning when I lost reason. Now it's afternoon. But the stiffness in my joints suggests more than a day has passed, even two possibly.

As I'm about to speak, Donna continues, "I remember speaking to you at the party – seeing what prowls beneath your skin. I almost admire the effort your father went to contain it. I don't think you were meant to be here. In this village. Your father groomed you for a higher calling." I stiffen at his mention, remembering all of the horrors I'd endured while under the influence of her pollen. Donna seems to notice and says with heartbreaking gentleness, "I do not know what happened to you, nor is it my place to ask, but, if there are, boundaries, that need to be placed, then perhaps it is best if we let each other know."

I can only give a stiff nod. My own eyes drift to a vacant spot of air.

"I'm not ready." Is all I can say. I take a deep breath, though it rattles upon inhale. "Did I . . . did I happen to see things about you too? Does that, connection, work both ways?"

Donna straightens, her hands tightening around each other. "What did you see?"

I try to fight my nausea as I recall what had stepped from the fog. "It . . . it looked humanoid, but it felt like something more. Who . . . what was that thing?"

Donna blinks with a deep breath. "I don't recall. Nothing like that really matches up with my life. Perhaps it was merely a nightmare you created yourself."

My stomach sinks at the other nightmares she created after I'd collapsed an inch from the gate.

"It was real. At least, it felt so real." I murmur.

Donna doesn't say anything. Instead, she rises again and walks over to the bed tray of food. As she lifts it, two sets of legs unfold, allowing stability as she places it in my lap. "You should eat, and perhaps a bath as well. You were rather, putrid, when I had finally located you."

It didn't really settle in until she said it – that she had found me, and carried me all the way back to her estate. By herself . . . considering I hadn't seen anyone else on these grounds. I thought Bela had mentioned she had a gardener, but Donna herself never confirmed.

I hate to think of what happened after I left – did she sink to her knees and sob, did she try to pitifully piece her broken doll back together? Did she scream and curse and snarl as she pulled on the strings of my mind? Did she laugh and smile as she picked apart my pain until she found the place that housed all my fears?

I suppose I should be grateful she didn't manifest –

I shake my head and examine the tray. A simple spread: grilled cheese sandwich, a small bowl of mixed fruit, a blueberry muffin, and my glass of water she's once against refilled. I carefully adjust my legs, plucking the first half of the sandwich. "I want to thank you for sparing me. For bringing me back and, helping me. If someone had done something to one of my father's belongings, I would've done much worse. I am grateful for your mercy."

Donna sits at the edge of the bed, and I can't help but notice her nails are painted a faded, but dark red. She only offers a forced, timid smile.

Thunder grumbles outside.

I slowly chew and swallow, following it with a few gulps of water. "Look," I say, "if I'm going to have to do this for gods know how long, just to avoid Mother Miranda, then I want to talk to you. Not Angie. You."

Donna blinks, her brows narrowing. There's no authority behind her words as she says, "I don't think you're in such a place to make requests."

"It's all I'm asking for. I want to talk to you; even if we don't talk, I'd much rather enjoy your company without that doll."

The Lord flinches, but she takes another deep breath and lifts her chin. I almost admire her for how she looks down at me – perhaps she's been taking lessons from Lady Dimitrescu. "That doll as been with me through my hardest of times. Don't expect her to be shut away just because you are uncomfortable. You are in my home, you will respect my standards."

She blinks.

I blink, lowering my shoulders in submission.

"But, it's not like anyone has ever wanted to talk to me before, so . . ." she peers down at her hands, fiddling with nonexistent dirt beneath her nails. "I think I might like that."

I give a ghost of a smile, fidgeting as I feel the onslaught of needing to relive myself. I say as much, and the Lord dismisses herself with a nod and a promise to see me tomorrow.

But as she's in the threshold of my door, she pauses and looks back to me.

"I heard it, by the way."

Her voice is so quiet I didn't quite hear it the first time.

"What?" I ask.

She swallows, fear etching itself onto her delicate features. "The bell. I heard the bell."

Somehow, I manage to devour the entirety of the spread without throwing it back up. And once I've decided that my limbs can function enough to get me to the bathroom, I stiffly walk my way over and prep myself a warm bath with fruity smelling soaps and oils.

But as I sit in the tub lathering my arms with bubbles, my hair plastered to my back, I can't help but think of the gravity of the situation.

Donna was able to create illusions from my fear. She was able to go into my mind and weave scenes so violent and real that I still feel the sinking effects of it now. It's like the oils have become liquid lead, and I feel . . . heavy.

Yet even so, for her to have heard that bell – that death toll that had followed me throughout the path . . .

Something was out there, and it was trying to do harm to me.

I lean back, feeling the cold rim press into the top knob of my spine. I start and frantically feel all along the expanse of my shoulders, remembering something poking me in my back before I had blacked out. I'm relieved to feel only the long, horizontal scar given to me by Cassandra.

Still, I nearly slip on the tile floor as I scramble from the tub to try and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Wiping at the fog-covered mirror, I look and look and look.

Nothing.

Perhaps it was the stress of the hallucinations that just knocked me unconscious. But still . . . what was that thing? It was like a nightmare given flesh.

And if Donna head it to –

I try to reason with myself as I climb back into the tub, needing the warmth of the liquid cocoon.

I've seen similar monsters – the lycan, the vârcolaci. Lady Dimitrescu can create long metal claws from sheer will. Bela and her sisters can turn into a swam of flies by sheer will. Lord Heisenberg has the ability to manipulate metal with little effort, or care. I ignore the urge to touch the jagged scar at the peak of my arm and shoulder.

There is something more going on here. Perhaps something darker than a cursing of magic. I need answers – but how I'm going to get them will be the trickiest part. Something like this, with something like these people, under Mother Miranda . . .

No – no, this is not something that I should get into. It's none of my business. I have no right to know. I'm better of just keeping my head down and earning my money to that I can return to Lacy.

And yet, there's that insufferable tug – that thread that urges me to look. To see.

I decide to drown it in strawberry bubbles and more food.

I didn't see Angie for the rest of the week. Or the mentioned gardener. Their lack of presence around the estate had me beginning to wonder if they were ever real to begin with.

The only evidence I had at all that the gardener remained on the premises were the notes slipped under the door – a daily report of the plants and status of the gravesite. I wonder what they will do once winter settles in.

The only person I encountered was Donna, at least when she emerged from her workshop for food and water. I'd taken to making my own meals and eating them in my room. Donna never really called for me, nor did I really go looking for her.

Angie's face was slowly coming back together piece by piece; Donna sparing a few evenings to try and create an entirely fresh, new face for the doll, but opted to piece together what was her father's original gift.

Donna would occasionally ask how I was faring; though our exchanges were nothing more than polite banter and wishes of wellness, despite our agreement of talking without Angie.

Once my body stopped aching like I'd been pounded with a thousand hooves, Donna assigned me the role of . . . cook.

Quite a surprise since I'm not one to follow recipes – but I am one for experimentation. It's how I made most of the meals with Lacy before we moved to Luiza's. I said as much to Donna, whose only response was, I like experimentation.

Surprisingly, unlike Castle Dimitrescu, Donna had a surprising amount of meat stored in her freezer box. So I took to creating certain meals that I remembered from our home – before it was broken – and others through wonder and a test of mingling flavors. Most of them worked out, if a bit over flavored. But thankfully Donna loved garlic as much as I did.

With the kitchen being close to Donna's workshop, she would come in smelling like woodchips and paint. It actually gave us something to talk about when the conversation about me, or Angie, or what we both might've seen and heard in that valley became too difficult in effort.

Turns out Donna is a bit of a baker when not in her father's workshop; furthered when I'd caught the Lord one day covered in flour with a smile on her face. The smell of vanilla and sugar filling the lower-level moments later.

When I wasn't cooking, I was free to roam about the property, as if I truly did have the entire place to myself. Thankfully Bela had packed some spare books for me to read, but I'd taken to Donna's study – a mixture of fiction and facts that had me sitting at her desk for hours on end, only leaving when my stomach demanded food.

Every day, one book after another—stories of love and romance, of action and war, to cooking and learning the biology of various mountainous plants. By the end of the week, I swear I've read in almost every corner of the house, even taking to the porch with the proper attire and blankets – having the waterfall in the background just settled my nerves in a way that I haven't felt in a while. If ever.

I threw myself into the books, into cooking. I cooked and brewed and baked and steamed. If only because it was all I had to do.

Some of the pollen seemed to still be in my system, as I continued to have nightmares, despite Donna's insistence that she was finished probing my mind. She suggested an after-effect conjured by my own imagination, but gave little help in ways to combat it. The nightmares left me groggy, sweaty—but the room was so open, the white noise of the waterfall so calming that when I'd jerk awake, I didn't rush to the toilet. No walls pushing in around me, no inky darkness. I knew where I was. Even if I didn't really want to be there.

That final night, I could barely sleep — half from relief, half from terror that perhaps Donna really did have some final, nasty surprise in store. But the night and its terrors passed, and when dawn broke, I was dressed before the sun had fully risen.

I'd taken to eating in my rooms, but I swept down the stairs, heading across that manor, down to the workshop in the basement.

Sprawled in her usual chair, Donna was in a loose, white blouse, grey trousers, and a brown apron. The air smelled of polished wood and paint, and she has a content smile as she dabs a brush along the face of a doll. Of Angie.

"Good morning, Lady Beneviento." I say by way of greeting. "I'll be heading back to the castle now."

Donna places the brush down, and takes a long sip of whatever is in her cup. It looks like tea. "Good morning, Erika."

"It's been a week. I'll be heading back to the castle." I repeat.

She studies my teal and grey clothes, a variation of my daily attire. I think this is the longest I've gone without wearing a dress. "That color suits you."

I give a shy, cautious smile. "If there anything you need me to do before I go?"

She chuckles, low and soft with a shake of her head. Her long, wavy hair – tied back by a white ribbon – floating over her back, as if they in water.

I straighten as I recognize the face of the doll – Angie. I slowly walk over to the desk, Donna angling the doll's head so I can have a better look. "I'm nearly done. Just touch-ups now. All the grunt work is done."

"She looks good."

She really doesn't. I can't say I'm happy she'll be back – but if Donna keeps to her word, then perhaps I can learn to tolerate her existence.

But seeing some of the visible fissures, seeing the patchworks of different skin tones and pieces . . . "I am really sorry about ruining her."

Donna shrugs, setting down the head. Spread across her desk are different aspects of Angie – from the head to the body and hands, to the bridal attire which has been removed and even adjusted. "Not like it wasn't brought upon." She murmurs.

I fold my lips in, taking a step back to lean against the large workbench at the center of the room. "Do you . . . do you really think those things? About me? About my sister?"

Donna looks to me, eyes widening briefly, brows lifting. Her mouth pops open, but she closes it a second later. "No. No I – I don't, it's just . . . I've always spoken to Angie after my father's passing. After a while, it was how I chose to communicate with other people. After a while, she sort of, took on a personality of her own."

I suppress my shudder at the thought of that doll being sentient. Of any of her dolls being sentient. I might wake up one night to one of them trying to chop off my toes.

"No one ever tried to talk to me anyway, not even Mother Miranda." She had mentioned that when I'd awoken from the pollen. "So, if it makes you feel any better, I apologize for what she said. And I promise it won't happen again. Maybe she needed it to happen so now she won't be mouthing off." She chuckles.

I do my best to give a convincing smile. I'd read a similar story about a living doll – it was horror, and it didn't end well for the protagonist.

"If you'd like, I could help around the workshop next time, Lady Beneviento."

Donna tilts her head and pouts, "I give you a week of quiet and you address me so formally?"

I feel my cheeks warm. "It's a force of habit. And I didn't ask to be here, or be given that week."

"And yet look at you. Your face has some color — and those marks under your eyes are almost gone. Your cooking has improved tremendously, by the way." She giggles.

I didn't even notice what I'd looked like before. My face always seemed the same to me when I caught my reflection in any mirror around the castle. "T-Thank you, La – Donna."

She smiles and rises. "I'll tell Angie you said good-bye."

Before I can think twice, her arms wrap around me in a gentle hug.

I stiffen, but quickly relax so I wouldn't insult her. My own arms easily wrap around her, resting at the center of her shoulderblades. I give her a stiff nod, giving a thin-lipped smile. "Be seeing you."

"I'll walk you out, at least."

But as we take the elevator back up to the first floor, I straighten. I hadn't though about Bela or the entire Dimitrescu family. All week, yes, but today . . . today I've only thought of Bela, of wanting to see her, hold her, ask her about everything I had been assuming. During the past several days, I hadn't even thought about what I had done to her before I left, or what repercussion is waiting for me in return, if any.

I'd told her to stay the hell away from me until she could decide what the hell we are to each other. I'd meant that as much to me as I did to her. I haven't decided if I might actually have feelings for her, of it it's just some kind of lust-fueled fantasy. I've been deemed special by a family whose first instinct is to kill.

They've killed people before – without regret or care. Many maidens likely having lost their lives in that castle.

And yet . . . Bela chose me, because I can sing a song that makes her feel alive.

I shake my head. I can't be thinking about these things. Not when I'll have so much more to do when I get back to the castle. I feel sorry for the maid who might've replaced me while I was away. Likely replaced me in bed with Bela as well. The thought makes my face warm.

Donna doesn't seem to notice, or at least pretends not to as we walk towards her front door. Her footsteps phantom mine as she opens the door for me.

As I step out onto the porch, I turn back one last time as I descend the steps. The waterfall's mist sprinkling along my hair and heated cheeks. Donna only spares a brief wave goodbye.

"Good luck," she croons. "I'll see you next month."

And before I can say anything, she closes the door behind me.