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And now what?
The thought loops endlessly in Maya’s mind as she watches Simon—or rather, the entity inhabiting his mask—sitting across from her, hands resting on his knees, back eerily straight. His voice rises into the room, a soft and fluid melody, undeniably feminine, floating through the air like a forgotten whisper.
Maya knows what she has to do.
Usually, she has to go where the memories are strongest, where the energy of spirits has etched itself into the walls, into the ground, into the very fabric of time. But this time, moving freely through the manor is no longer an option.
So… would her powers be enough—here?
She draws a deep breath.
“I think I can do it,” she finally says, more to herself than to the others.
“Are you sure?” Jenks lifts his head, a mix of relief and worry in his tired eyes.
Maya feels the whispers stir in her mind, quivering at the prospect of what she’s about to attempt. She nods, clinging to her resolve.
“Yes… I can do this.”
She sits cross-legged in front of Simon, eyes fixed on the unmoving mask—that smooth, white face now strangely familiar. She tries to push aside the soft, warm sensation still lingering on her lips after that kiss with Jimmy, forcing herself to ignore his nearby presence as he quietly pulls his shirt back on with a grimace.
At least neither Jenks nor Harriet had said anything. Or maybe they understood—the journalist and the inspector now staying close to one another, as if seeking comfort or protection. A connection between them was clearly taking shape.
This night keeps getting more surprising.
The young woman focuses, opens her mouth, and is about to begin when hurried footsteps shatter the silence.
Camille bursts into the room, breathless, eyes wide with panic.
“They shot Robert.”
A cold weight falls over them.
“What? But… why?” Harriet raises a trembling hand to her mouth. “He was one of them!”
Camille shakes her head, trying to find the right words.
“I saw him. He was hiding in a bedroom, curled up in a corner because of his eyes. He looked relieved to see them coming. But they… they killed him.”
“They don’t leave any witnesses,” Jenks mutters, his voice grim.
Harriet turns to him, eyes wide, panic rising inside her like a crashing wave.
“What will they do to us if they find us?”
Jenks doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks louder than any response could.
“Once Simon’s free, we need to get the hell out of here,” he finally says, his clenched jaw betraying the urgency of the situation. “I’m not equipped to protect all of you against Rand and his goons, and I’m starting to think my boss didn’t grasp how serious things are here.”
He runs a nervous hand along the back of his neck, thinking fast.
“We need to find car keys and get out. If Phoenix made it this far, it means the road’s been cleared. We can leave.”
“They probably haven’t reached my room yet…” Harriet cuts in, her voice shaky but determined. “My keys might still be there.”
“Good, but we can’t take unnecessary risks. We’ll need a diversion.”
“The mirrors…” Maya thinks out loud, and all eyes shift to her.
“If you knock on their frame, it echoes down the entire hallway.”
She senses a tension on her right and instinctively turns to Jimmy. He immediately drops his gaze, avoiding her eyes, clearly uneasy.
So it was him earlier—the one who found a way to interrupt Simon before he could lean any closer to her.
A wave of warmth rises in her cheeks.
“I’ll do it,” Camille steps forward and raises her hand, volunteering.
“I can help too…”
Jimmy straightens slowly, bracing himself on one knee before pushing up to his feet. His wounded arm remains tucked tightly against his side, his breathing still a little uneven, but his determination is written clearly across his face.
The sigils carved into his skin have bled through his shirt in dark stains, but somehow, it reassures everyone. He’s himself again.
“Only the emergency power’s running. I can cut the lights—throw the whole manor into darkness.”
“You could do that?” Jenks raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
“I’m decent with electricity,” Jimmy replies with a faint smirk, though the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders betrays him.
A short silence settles. The inspector exchanges a glance with Maya, searching for silent confirmation. She nods gently.
“Alright,” Jenks agrees, turning to the others. “That’s the plan. Maya, it’s your turn. We’ll meet back here once everything is in place.”
Everyone shares a final look, fully aware that everything must go perfectly. Harriet and Jenks slip quietly into the hallway, while Camille, light on her feet, darts in the opposite direction to prepare the diversion.
Jimmy lingers a moment. He turns his head slightly toward Maya, then places a hesitant hand on her shoulder, his gaze deepening.
“Whatever happens…” he murmurs, “I just wanted to say… thank you, Maya. For everything.”
A shiver runs up Maya’s spine. There is a weight in his voice, something more than simple gratitude. She offers him a small smile, but an anxious twist curls in her stomach as she watches them all leave—an ominous feeling she can’t shake. Then, silence. Even the ghost has stopped singing.
Maya takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She lets the whispers swell in her mind, rise like a tide, fill the space around her and guide her. What is she supposed to find now?
She knows how Hugo takes control, and she’s discovered a way to bring Jimmy back into the light. But will the sigils last forever? What happens when the carvings begin to heal? What if Jimmy loses control again? He can’t live severed from his emotions. No… she has to find a way to get rid of the entity for good.
But Simon—or rather, the ghost who lives in his mask—does he have the answer?
Maya inhales again and focuses.
“Is someone there?”
Silence. Then a soft, distant female voice rises from the flawless mask.
“Hello?”
“What’s your name?”
“Edith Harrison. I’m the childhood friend of Miss Euphemia Hall.”
Maya frowns slightly. These names feel old, dusty—like they’ve been pulled from the pages of a novel written centuries ago.
“What year is it?”
“The year 1813.”
She’s gone back again. Far enough, maybe, to witness the original pact? Perhaps the answer she seeks lies there, somewhere, buried beneath centuries of forgetfulness. Edith sounds young—maybe even her own age.
But Maya hesitates. She doesn’t know how to continue, where to begin. She closes her eyes again, listening for the whispers. She can do this. She has to.
“Come on… come on…” she whispers to the voices at her ear. “Just a little help… whoever you are…”
“You, not listen.”
Maya startles. It’s not the voice from the mask, but another—deeper, rougher, marked by an accent she can’t quite place. She opens her eyes abruptly.
The woman in red stands behind Simon, still and upright. Her red and gold veil still hides her face, but there’s something in her stance—an undeniable authority.
“I… I am listening! I’m trying!” Maya protests, shaken.
“No. You listen with this…” The woman gestures to her ear, then slowly places her palm over her own heart.
“You must listen… with this.”
Maya freezes, her heartbeat echoing in her chest.
“But you cannot… if you do not accept who you are.”
Her grandmother’s voice rises suddenly from the murmurs in her mind—soft and comforting, like a lullaby. But in this moment, that familiarity carries a quiet, insidious cruelty.
“Sometimes, you’ll see and hear things that others can’t. Things that might frighten you… or make you very sad. But you will have a choice, my darling.”
Her voice drifts in the air, intimate and distant all at once, like a secret whispered into her ear.
“You can choose to see and to listen. Even to answer. Or you can choose to ignore them. That’s what your great-grandmother chose to do… and what your father wanted to do.”
A shiver runs through Maya. A crushing wave of emotions rises in her—raw and overwhelming. Everything she’s lived through tonight crashes into her heart: the fear, the pain, the grief, the horror. Stronger. Realer. There’s no more escape. But the voice continues, relentless.
“If you ignore them long enough, you can even stop seeing them, stop feeling them. And whatever you choose, you must never, ever blame yourself. It is a choice, my darling. Your choice. But… remember one thing. One very important thing.”
A tear rolls down the young woman’s cheek. Then another. Her whole body begins to tremble under the weight of the truths she’s spent the night dragging from others—truths now turning against her with devastating force.
She’s made the ghosts face their reflection, accept what they were, what they had done. But now that it’s her turn… she is terrified.
“If you look into the darkness… If you look long enough… you’ll notice that something looks back at you.”
The young woman lets out a sob, her voice cracking under the emotion.
“I didn’t want this power…” The words are meant for her grandmother, for the night itself, for herself… but most of all, for the red-draped figure still standing there, unmoving.
The spirit watches her, its face and thoughts hidden behind its veil, unreadable.
“Not be a question of want,” the woman in red replies at last, her tone calm, patient. “But of choice. Spirit choose messenger… but messenger decide if accept or not. If you want to listen… you must truly choose.”
Maya’s spasms intensify, her body trembling with adrenaline and fear. Around her, the whispers press in closer. Are they in the room? In the walls? In her mind? She can’t tell anymore.
Her eyes fix on Simon’s white mask—pristine and silent—and a primal, instinctive fear surges through her. She lifts her gaze toward the woman in red, pleading.
“If I accept… I’ll never be able to ignore them again, will I? I’ll never be able to choose not to see… or not to hear…”
“No.”
A silence.
“And if I refuse…?” she murmurs, almost against her will, like trying to bargain with the inevitable.
But the spirit doesn’t answer.
Maya swallows a sob, her tears falling onto her knees, suspended at the edge of a decision whose irreversibility she now fully understands. She stands on the threshold of a gaping door—one she can feel is ready to close forever behind her if she dares to step forward.
She tries to steady her breath, to regain control, but her mind races. Hugo wants her power. He craves what she can do. If she accepts it fully, how far will he go to possess her, to consume her entirely? What will he do to Jimmy to reclaim access to her?
And Phoenix… What would happen if Rand and Ashford discovered the full extent of her abilities? Would they lock her up too? Or worse—force Jimmy to take her until she bore new vessels for them to manipulate as they pleased? More innocent children to be sacrificed—children born of Jimmy and her?
The very thought makes her stomach lurch. A wave of nausea grips her, twisting her insides until the world spins.
It’s true. She never wanted this power. But then… what does she want?
She wants to help. That’s the only thing she’s certain of. She wants to help, like she helped Camille, Harriet, and Jenks. Like she reached out to her friends at the Sea View Hotel. Like she can still help Simon. Like she can still help Jimmy.
But also like she helped Amy. Dr. Bose. Harvey. Rose. Like she helped Sara, Follin… Like she can help Edith and the woman in red.
And that other spirit. The one she’s tried all night to forget—to shove to the furthest corner of her mind. That creeping shadow the woman in red fled from, the one whose dark fingers brushed the brim of Jenks’ hat.
She can make a difference. She can help. But to do that, she must first face herself.
“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.”
Those were Elias’s words—his final piece of wisdom. Did he understand what she was trying to tell him on that stone bench? Who can say?
So Maya takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Once again, she must be the one who looks inward. Two warm hands settle gently on her shoulders—a reassuring, almost maternal touch. The heat seeps through her clothes, spreads across her skin, and settles deep within her, soothing.
Maya knows it isn’t the woman in red. It’s someone closer. Someone more… familiar.
“Can you guide me?” she asks in a trembling breath, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I always have.”
There is infinite tenderness in those words. The image of her grandmother rises unbidden in her mind, and Maya feels two arms wrap around her—a gentle gesture, filled with a warmth that feels almost unreal. A moment suspended, outside of time. The presence flows into her, merging with every corner of her being, as if they had always been connected, as if this had always been inevitable.
Then, everything explodes. A surge of whispers, a storm of echoes swirling inside her… and then, suddenly, silence. A full, calming silence. The voices are still there—she knows it, she feels them—but they are waiting. They no longer scream or fight to be heard. They wait, patient and respectful.
Maya takes a deep breath and slowly opens her eyes.Everything is the same. She is still there, kneeling in front of Simon. The manor is still cloaked in darkness. But she knows something has changed.
It isn’t visible. It’s inside.
A door has closed behind her, but another has just opened. Without hesitation, she reaches out and takes Simon’s hands in hers.
“Edith?” she whispers.
“I’m here…”
“Show me.”
Immediately, Simon’s fingers tighten around hers—and everything shifts.
Maya barely has time to feel the vertigo, the dizzying sensation of falling backward at incredible speed. The space spins around her, and then… Simon is still in front of her, but his white mask glows more brightly in the golden light of flickering candles. Around them, the walls have transformed.
They stand in an elegantly decorated bedroom—refined, sophisticated, steeped in the charm of another era. A young woman’s room. Still holding Simon’s hands, Maya steps forward and speaks gently, but firmly.
“Tell me, Edith. Tell me your story.”
And if the answer to stopping Hugo for good lies here, she will find it.
The room comes alive before Maya’s eyes. Shadows from the past take shape, outlines forming, vibrant with life. The golden candlelight flickers across the floral wallpaper, the heavy velvet drapes framing a large window that opens onto a sunlit garden. The air is laced with the delicate scent of lavender and beeswax.
Then, the door bursts open. Two young women enter, laughing, arms entwined as if they were one soul in two bodies. Their elegant, finely embroidered dresses whisper with every carefree step. Their bond lights up the room more than the candles ever could.
One of them catches the eye instantly. Strikingly beautiful, with long chestnut hair framing a delicate face and high cheekbones, her eyes shine with mischievous boldness and barely contained defiance. Her smile is wide and radiant, as if the entire world were nothing more than a playground waiting to be explored.
Beside her, the second young woman is more reserved, quieter. But her gaze burns with unwavering admiration. She follows her friend with a mix of affection and awe, as if she were watching a star too bright to ever touch.
“I believe we’ve committed a crime against art today!” exclaims the bolder of the two, collapsing onto the bed with a burst of laughter.
“Effie, you jest? We murdered art!” replies the other, mock scandal in her voice.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Edith,” Euphemia answers, feigning offense. “The professor simply said we lack… artistic sensitivity!”
“He said our paintings looked like muddy blobs and that he’d never seen brushstrokes so appalling!” Edith corrects, her cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment.
Euphemia bursts out laughing again and springs to her feet, seizing Edith’s hands in hers with a tenderness that contrasts with her usual nonchalance.
“You’re far too serious, my dear,” she murmurs, leaning in so their faces are almost touching. “How do you expect to find a husband if you spend your time worrying about such trivial things?”
Edith flushes instantly and lowers her eyes, searching for words.
“I…”
But she doesn’t get the chance to answer. Euphemia gently presses her forehead against hers, a playful glint in her eyes.
“And thank goodness,” she purrs, “because that means I get to keep you all to myself.”
Edith’s breath catches for a moment, and her gaze, still locked on her friend’s face, betrays the storm churning inside her. But Euphemia pulls away lightly, skipping over to her bed, her crystalline laughter filling the room.
“Come on!” she exclaims, patting the space beside her. “I have something to show you.”
Edith stays frozen a moment, her heart pounding, then finally gives in—unable to resist the irresistible pull of Euphemia Hall.
She settles cautiously on the bed, and her friend, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, slips a hand under her pillow and pulls out a carefully bound book. With a quick motion, she sets it on her lap and opens it to a specific page, her smile spreading into a look both wicked and triumphant.
“Father brought this back from his last trip to India,” she whispers, as if revealing a forbidden secret.
“You’re lucky he spoils you like that. My father only has eyes for my brothers.”
Euphemia raises an eyebrow and lets out a sudden, mocking laugh.
“You think mine does it out of pure kindness? He’s just trying to ease his guilt—for being an absolute ogre and for Mother’s death. He’d rather roam the world than deal with me. He leaves the maids and tutors to raise me. That’s not love—it’s a conscience payoff. And anyway, it’s not a gift. I stole it from his study.”
She shrugs, as if it means nothing, then taps the book with a playful finger.
“But never mind that… just look.”
Intrigued, Edith leans in slightly, squinting to see the contents more clearly in the candlelight. Her fingers hover hesitantly before brushing the page, which is filled with finely detailed illustrations.
In an instant, her cheeks flush a deep crimson. Her breath catches as she realizes what she’s looking at.
“Effie, this is… oh!”
Her hands clutch at the fabric of her dress while Euphemia, roaring with laughter, tilts the book further so Edith can see every detail. For before her lies an authentic copy of the Kama Sutra, its pages adorned with poses and embraces of deeply sensual intimacy.
Edith immediately averts her gaze, one trembling hand flying to her mouth as if the book itself might burn her.
“Effie!” she breathes, half scandalized, half mesmerized.
But Euphemia isn’t fazed. On the contrary—her eyes sparkle with mischief as she watches her friend’s reaction, savoring every second with obvious delight.
Then she adopts a mock-serious tone, mimicking the voice of a stern matron.
“It’s quite different from what your mother described, isn’t it? ‘Lie back and think of the Empire!’”
She rolls her eyes dramatically and pulls an exaggerated expression of pure exasperation before snapping the book shut with a loud thwack.
“Shame it isn’t translated.”
Edith, still bright red, hides her face behind her hands as though that might erase the image now etched in her mind.
“Effie! You are… impossible!”
But Euphemia, entirely unfazed, fixes her with a smug smile, her elbows resting on her knees, chin cradled in her clasped hands.
“Who would have thought a man and a woman could do so many things with their bodies?” she whispers, her voice dropping to a more playful tone.
Then, after a deliberate pause, she adds with barely concealed mischief:
“Or… why not two women?”
Edith says nothing. She doesn’t protest. She doesn’t scold. She doesn’t even look away, though that would’ve been easier. Instead, she sits perfectly still, her crimson cheeks somehow deepening in color. But in the flickering fever of her gaze, there is something else. Something more turbulent.
Euphemia bursts out laughing and, in a sudden burst of affection, leans forward to place a quick kiss on her friend’s burning cheek.
“Alright, I’ll stop tormenting you.”
She springs to her feet, the layers of her dress swirling around her, and skips lightly to her vanity.
“Why don’t I read you the new poem I wrote instead? I was thinking of you when I composed it, and the voice of that angel inside me whispered the loveliest verses.”
She picks up a soft, rose-orange leather notebook and hands it to her before rummaging through a small chest and pulling out a delicate copper mirror. Maya watches her for a moment, a strange sense of recognition stirring. She’s sure she’s seen that mirror before… but where?
“But first… promise me you’ll always stay by my side. I only ever want to write for you. Promise me, Edith.”
The young woman returns cheerfully, curling up beside her friend, hugging her tightly and laughing against her neck, cheeks flushed pink.
“I promise, Effie,” Edith whispers, still blushing but visibly happy. “You know I love you.”
“Yes… I love you too.”
And something both sweet and bitter lingers in the air.