The snow began to fall that evening, and she watched as the white gave way to red, and the ominous voice of her mother, whose warning she didn't understand at the time, came back in full force.

Beware of the Iron Heart….

What could her mother possibly have known of this place? She knew her mother's family, like her father, had come here from Europe, but knew little of her upbringing or where exactly she was from.

She hadn't thought to ask such deep questions when she or her father was alive.

Papa, ah miss you….

This night, she waited up for Pietro. She was going to wait until he came to her, because surely he would. He had spent the last two nights nowhere to be found, and had an injured hand. He had to come to bed at some point.

Hours dragged on, and she dozed off, waking with a start, searching the room for her husband.

But it was Max who sat in a chair across the room.

"You are awake."

She took a deep breath. "What are you doin' in here?"

"Keeping watch."

She ran a hand through her hair. "He didn't come to bed again."

"I'm very aware." There was a bite to his tone, clearly irritated with his son's behavior.

She was about to say something when she curled into herself as a sharp pain went through her abdomen.

She felt the pressure of his ghostly touch on her forehead, checking for a fever. His eyebrows furrowed. "You are not well. Have you eaten?"
She shook her head. "Ah feel sick everytime I try to eat."
"Have you been drinking anything?"
"The tea…" She points to the teacup on the bedside table.
He inspects the cup, and a sniff of the drink causes his expression to freeze.
"Do not drink or eat anything that is prepared for you, only what you prepare yourself."
She found the instructions odd. "Ah don't understand."
"I want to test a theory. Please. Indulge me."
She nodded, finding his firm yet gentle request somewhat endearing.
"Ah will."
"Thank you."
"Freiherr?" She asked.
"Yes?"
"Why are you so kind to me? You have no reason to. You are a spirit of this house, and ah have barely been married to your son for a fortnight."
He paused a moment. "I'm sure you recall our first meeting…when I mistook you for Magda."
She nodded. "Your wife."
He nodded. "The resemblance is….uncanny. But beyond that….you have her spirit. Her strength. You…remind me of her."
It was an odd sort of feeling, this man, the ghost of her husband's father, who found comfort in her presence.
Ah wonder….
"Can they see you?"
"When I want to be seen."
"Ah'm guessin' that's less now than before…"
"They do not like when I make an appearance. It's not pleasant."
"Pietro says you traveled a lot for work…when you were alive."
"Trying to salvage what was left of the fortune. My father before me was a reckless fool who spent his money on frivolous things. I was trying to ensure I did not leave the same legacy."
"...until Magda got sick."
He nodded. "She passed on. She is not confined to this place, thank the gods."
Her smile was sympathetic, wondering how long he had been chained to this house, doomed to spend eternity watching his family home turn to ruin.
"Tell me more about her…"
She began, in the following days, to prepare her own food and tea, refusing Wanda's insistence that she prepare her meals. She politely declined, stating that it is her duty as a wife to learn how to prepare food for herself. Wanda seemed a bit miffed by this, but did not bring it up again.
Anna Marie's ill state disappeared, and she was well again. She watched during the day as Pietro improved on his machine, his smile and demeanor one of a husband who seemed to care for her.
But when the nights came….
He was nowhere to be found. She had tried to go looking for him, but was often deterred by Max, the ghost who appeared to her and kept her company. She found herself enjoying her time with him, finding out more and more about this stoic and stern looking man who found solace in her companionship.
But she couldn't help the longing, the need for physical comfort that her husband should be providing. She wanted to find him, to drag him to bed and beg him to hold her in the night. Such thoughts plagued her one night, and she wasn't aware of the tears that streamed down her face until she felt the pressure of his hand on hers, and she rolled over in her bed to find him sitting there, a look of concern on his face.
"Anna Marie?" He asked quietly. "What is wrong? Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, sitting up and trying to hide her face as she wiped her tears away. "No…ah….ah'm fine…."
"You are clearly not." The pressure of his fingers tilting her chin to look at him, her red and white curls framing her face. "Tell me."
"Ah….ah shouldn't….it's not polite conversation in present company."
"Anna Marie…" He was gentle with her. "Please….what troubles you?"
She took a breath, trying to calm and stop the flow of tears. "Ah….ah don't know what ah did wrong….Pietro….he was so sweet in the beginnin'...when my father died….he was right there for me…..and now….when the sun goes down, it's as if ah don't exist….." She swallowed. "We….we haven't consummated our marriage."
His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
"Ah know that must sound so silly, to be cryin' over somethin' like that….but ah lost my father…ah moved to a new home, a home where ah don't know anyone here, and the one person ah should be leanin' on is my husband, and he's not here…" The tears seemed to be running down faster, and she couldn't see anything, the outline of his form barely visible.
She felt herself being lifted and she felt the sensation of being sat on what she could assume was his lap, and the notion that such a thing was not proper for someone who was not her husband to do was forgotten in that moment. She felt the hair framing her face being moved in a gentle manner as he allowed her to cry, to hold her.
She shouldn't find comfort this way. She shouldn't find solace in the touch of a ghost, someone she couldn't even feel properly.
She was lonely, grieving for the life she had left behind in America, and left alone every night by the man who should be her husband in name and deed.
She felt a sense of calm wash over her, her hair being brushed back gently as her crying subsided, and she sat up to finally face him. "Forgive me…."
When she tilted her face upward to continue her apology, she found his expression was not of disapproval or annoyance, but rather empathy and tenderness.
"There is nothing to forgive….not from you."
This was wrong. She should move out of his lap, she should tell him to leave, to let her sleep. But her body was at war with her mind, and right now, she relished at the feeling of being held, of being comforted,
She felt her heart fluttering in her chest as he trailed his fingers along her neck, sending shivers down her spine as her eyes closed, the pressure almost feeling like an actual touch.
This was wrong.
She opened her eyes, and his sharp blue eyes were focused solely on her, and he was barely a breath away.
This is wrong.
Then why does it feel….so right?