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what you’d have here, and safer. This house is not right for you. Loneliness has a way of changing you. Of infecting you.”
    â€œI’ve had practice.” Hannah had trouble reconciling the unsettling tales she’d heard involving the woman standing beside her. Stories of men who’d left their houses for milk or a glass of rye and were next seen weeks later, looking as though they’d been ravaged by decades, and unwilling to speak of what had happened to them. Stories of men who never returned to their families.
    â€œNot like this, child. Our people are,” Christobelle looked up, searching the sky, “predisposed, you could say. We invite things in, sometimes without even knowing it.”
    â€œI am not your people,” Hannah said, spitting out the last word.
    â€œCare to gamble on that, child?”
    Hannah examined her mother. “I’ve spent my whole life here, between these walls, between these trees. It’s been as good a home as any. You said this was your house—is it still yours to give?”
    â€œWhat?”
    Hannah cleared her throat. “You gave this house to Mae while she cared for me. Do you want it back, now that she’s gone? Or could I stay here?” It was all she had left of Mae. It was all she’d ever known. The silence would be painful at first, but the memories would keep her company. “Could it be mine?”
    Christobelle watched her hawkishly, all signs of her earlier vulnerability wiped away. “It will be a different house now, child. The murk will seep. That life that Mae made for you—she took it with her when she went.”
    â€œI’ll make my own, then,” Hannah retorted.
    Christobelle’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that
your
gift is life? Have you ever considered that you were kept here not only for your protection but for theirs as well?” She swept her arm toward the house and the laughter that sounded from the kitchen.
    The fog that lay low across the water had reached them. The cool touch of it made Hannah’s body tighten. “I’m not like you.”
    â€œMaybe not.” Christobelle was silent for a long moment. Her head moved languidly from side to side, swerving from the house to the muddy water and back again. She smiled at something she saw there. “So it is,” she said softly. “The house is yours, child. Consider it a belated birthday present. We will wait and see what you make of it.”
    The memory of Mae’s chocolate cake made Hannah ache. It seemed impossible that only a week had passed since it’d been set before her, bright with birthday candles. “Thank you,” Hannah said, the words strange in her mouth. She didn’t know whether to feel relief at the small victory of remaining in her childhood home or worry that now there was something owing.
    Christobelle gestured to Samuel, who had returned and waited patiently by a nearby tree. “I should be going.” Hannah recoiled slightly as Christobelle took her hand and kissed it lightly, her lips dry and feathery as lichen. “You rest now, and eat up. Then we can talk about income. You should know that the congregation is well connected.”
    Hannah shuffled uncomfortably. She hadn’t even begun thinking of how she would support herself. Their needs had been few, but there’d always been food on the table. Hannah had never seen Mae’s patients, who stepped tentatively into their house but left strengthened in some ineffable way, pay with money.
    Christobelle seemed distracted. “How did she die?” she asked, as Samuel came to stand by her and offered his arm.
    â€œHer heart gave out, they think.” Hannah paused. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œNo matter,” Christobelle said, looking askance at the house. “Keep safe, Hannah. Keep yourself closed, no matter how good it might feel to open. There are many who don’t have your