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The cold air seized my lungs as I continued after her through the wood. The small inner copse had grown thick enough I could scarcely see my way back. The path ahead marked by whatever meager light filtered through the bare branches overhead along with the pale flashes of her dress. The sound of water was stronger here.

Brambles latched onto my trousers, holding me in place. Tired of this mad-dash race, I called out again for her. “Wait, please!” My voice startled the birds, sending them to the sky in a flutter of feather and movement. The child did not stop.

Fine.

With a grunt, I tugged against the thorns, freeing myself. The fabric ripped, but when I looked up—the girl had vanished. Just as she had the first time. My heart began to race as I realized where she’d brought me.

The lake.

I stepped into a clearing in the center of the wood. This was where my mother had died. The air here was odd. Fragrant and sharp, or perhaps it was just my imagination. I drew nearer, pulled upon an invisible tether toward the water. That peculiar pulsing of my blood in my hands returned, making me keenly aware of each beat of my heart. Each breath. Each step I took toward the water. Ruan’s worries about this place returned in force.

Even the birds had quieted.

Power. That was what Ruan had said. Good God, the lake was thrumming with it. I had to bring him here, see what he made of it. For whatever dwelled here was strong enough I could feel it. I took another step closer to the edge, stooping down to trail my fingers across the mirrorlike surface.

I could not fathom how this pitiful pond, lovely as it might be, could kill my mother. Not when fierce winter storms on the American Great Lakes had failed to do the job. Seeing it in person only reinforced my determination to understand what truly happened that night. Had the girl meant to bring me here? I’d first seen her by my mother’s grave. Now, at the scene of her death.

A stick cracked behind me, startling me from my thoughts. I whipped my head around to find Mrs. Wauters, our landlady, stooped down in the underbrush from whence I’d come. I’d not noticed her at all when I’d passed.

“Hello there, Mrs. Vaughn!” she called out, and for the life of me I could not understand how she got here so quickly. I’d just left her at the boardinghouse not even an hour past. A prickle of worry crept up my spine as I took her in.

“Are you quite all right? You were running by and didn’t hear me call to you.” She shielded her eyes, stepping into the clearing. She dusted her gloved hands on her apron. I turned once again to the still waters behind me.

Surely Mrs. Wauters had heard me calling after the child or seen her dart by.

“There was a little girl … all dressed in white. Did you see where she went?”

Mrs. Wauters’s expression flickered as she tilted her head to one side, not understanding my words. She shifted the basket looped over her arm, half-full of late chanterelles she’d found growing in the wood. “I didn’t see anyone pass, only you. Thought you might have crashed into me. Forgive me for saying, but it looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

I stared at her fraying basket. Both times the child had vanished, seemingly into the ether. I was not beyond believing in ghosts, or even magic, but I was certain the girl had been real.

I thrust my hand back into my pocket, running my finger over the worn fabric of the doll’s dress. I caught the inside of my cheek between my teeth, debating whether to press the issue, but instead let it drop. Mrs. Wauters would have said something if she’d seen the child run past.

Or you’d seen a ghost.

Ghosts don’t carry dolls, Ruby Vaughn.

Mrs. Wauters, our landlady, looked at me with pity before sucking in a sharp breath. A dawning realization came over her as she looked from me to the lake. Her voice dropped low. Rushed. “You should come away from the water, my dear.” She crossed herself before hurrying into the clearing and bustling me back toward the underbrush. “There is a story about these woods, of a malevolent water spirit that dwells here.”

I blinked in the mottled light of the wood. The young priest had mentioned something of the sort yesterday. Of an evil dwelling in this wood. “Do you mean a naiad?”

Her gaze never left the still waters. “She lives in the lake, condemned to her fate. Or so the story goes.”

I furrowed my brow. “Condemned?”

Mrs. Wauters shook her head. “We should not speak of her here. It is too near the water. You saw her, then? The spirit?”

“No. I saw a little girl. She was as real as you or I.” I held a hand out to demonstrate her height. “She was about this tall, and thin as a rail. Yellow ribbons in her dark hair.”

Mrs. Wauters’s expression grew grave. She took me by the elbow, leading me away from the lake, hazarding a glance back over her shoulder for good measure.

“My solicitor told me the waters here were once considered miraculous. I don’t recall any mention of murderous nymphs.”

That earned me a dry laugh from Mrs. Wauters. “Once perhaps. A very long time ago. But no more. The water brings death to any who enter. A woman from the hospital was found dead here three days past, by Father Étienne himself. A madwoman by all accounts.”

My mouth grew dry. She meant my mother. “And the other patient … the one who disappeared from the priory with her…?”

Mrs. Wauters shook her head in confusion. “No one escaped with her. She was found alone in the lake. It was all anyone could speak of in the village.”