“Very well.” Ledbetter could only admit that the others' understanding was entirely correct—that was indeed how things stood. Most importantly, this explanation aligned with the restless longing in his heart. “But… what should we do next? About those lost souls who haven’t yet strayed onto the wrong path…”

  “We must act in accordance with our Master’s wishes, of course. And you are mistaken, Ledbetter. There is no such thing as a soul that ‘hasn’t yet strayed onto the wrong path.’ So long as one is not on the path of truth, they live in profound error—it’s merely a matter of the depth of their corruption. It is our duty to guide them toward what is right.”

  A farmer waded through the stream. Just half a day prior, he had been fishing by the creek near the farm where he worked. Chasing after two ethereal, fairy-like girls had brought him here, though now he could no longer remember why he had come or what he was supposed to do.

  Up ahead, the vague outlines of the girls’ figures, pale as gauze, had shimmered in the distance. Their silvery laughter rang out now and then—sometimes seeming near, other times far, lingering like the slow tolling of a funeral bell, repeating in a strange, hypnotic rhythm. But now, for some reason, they were gone. Before him lay an open expanse of lake, its surface mirroring the sky, so still and vast it was like his own frozen thoughts.

  Unthinking, he moved forward by sheer inertia, drawn through the soundless silence toward somewhere on the lake’s surface.

  Then, once again, the familiar laughter came—this time from the side.

  “He actually followed us?”

  “What a strange fellow~”

  Dazed, he lifted his head and saw a house perched by the shore—one he had never noticed before. Most of it was obscured by woodland, the thick fog reducing the treetops and its silhouette to a smudge of lead-gray shadow. The structure seemed so vast, its true scale impossible to discern.

  This ominous, unfathomable house—if he had been himself, if his mind had still been clear—would have reminded him of the grim castles in those outmoded Gothic novels, teeming with ghosts and vampires lurking in the wings. He would have wisely stayed far away.

  At the doorway, two maids in frilled dresses had just swung open the door. Before stepping inside, they glanced his way—whether deliberately or not—and muffled giggles behind their hands as they glided in with inhuman lightness, swallowed by the unassuming walnut door and its polished brass plaque.

  The door remained ajar. His dulled mind saw no reason to hesitate, and out of habit, he followed them to the threshold. As he drew closer, he could see the foyer’s chandelier, unlike any he had ever seen, and a woolen carpet on the wooden floor, thicker than the moss in the oldest forests. The stark divide between rich and poor in Albion struck him then, and he froze, some instinct warning him that he had no right to intrude upon a gentleman’s domain.

  “Good day, sir,” said a woman in a black gown, her hair pinned up in a tight bun. Older than the two maids, she carried herself like a senior servant, the kind who managed the staff in a wealthy household—something he recognized from his experience as a farmhand.

  “I am More, the head maid here. It seems you’re in some trouble, sir. Would you care to come in and warm yourself by the fire?”

  He had expected to be turned away, not greeted with such polite hospitality. Only now did he realize he was drenched, strands of waterweed clinging to his sleeves, collar, trousers—anywhere they could latch on.

  And it was cold.

  “Is—is that truly all right? I’m just a hired farmhand, not some respectable guest…” he stammered, embarrassed.

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  “It’s the least I could do. Our new maids are still learning their manners—they played a little prank on you, and I must apologize for their mischievousness. I’ll discipline them properly later. But seeing as it was our doing that led you astray, leaving you to drown would hardly be proper hospitality. Our master would surely chide me if I neglected my duty.”

  More’s tone was courteous, but beneath it lay something uncompromising.

  ...Was that what had happened? How had he gotten here? He remembered seeing the girls splashing in the water, and then…

  The rest was a blur.

  “...Then, if you don’t mind, I’d be grateful to dry my clothes. I’m sorry about soiling your rug…” Like most common folk in Albion, he was awkward and deferential around servants of great houses. Whoever their master was, he must be a kind soul—even the help here were so gracious.

  More guided him to a servants’ lounge on the first floor. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by cleaning supplies—rags, brushes—hanging on the walls. A humble ceramic tea set, tin coffee mugs, and a biscuit jar sat on a cupboard. It looked no different from the lower quarters of any wealthy residence.

  He noted eight stools at the table, with cups to match.

  Only eight servants? For a house this size, that seemed too few.

  The girls’ laughter flitted past the corridor, disorienting him again.

  The hearth’s warmth reclaimed his attention. More stoked the fire with a poker. “The weather’s still brisk. Falling into the water must have been quite unpleasant.”

  “Thank you, Miss More. The fire helps.” Yet as he spoke, a shudder ran through him. The blaze was warm, but the contrast made the cold creeping up his back all the worse.

  “You still look chilled.” More lifted an iron kettle from the mantel and began brewing tea. “This is the servants’ blend—somewhat old, I’m afraid…”

  “A man like me wouldn’t know good tea if it bit him. Hot water’s blessing enough. You’re too kind!”

  “So you don’t mind it, then? You’ll accept my offer?” More’s question was oddly pointed.

  “By the grace of the Saints, meeting a kind soul like you is more fortune than I deserve,” he babbled. But as he glanced around, he noticed the table had more stools now—eleven. The cupboard’s cups had multiplied to match.

  There’d been eight earlier. How had it changed?

  Whispers echoed down the hall again. A numbing cold slithered down his spine, spreading through his limbs and nerves. The roaring fire couldn’t touch it.

  “Do you like the tea, sir?” More set a cup before him, its contents a bright amber-red. “Warming oneself from within helps against the chill. While you drink, might I steal a few minutes to speak of our honored master? I think you’d find it interesting.”

  The tea’s sweet aroma was intoxicating. Its heat seemed to dissolve the world outside it—nothing else mattered. Only More’s voice remained, distant and incomprehensible, like a call from another realm.

  His thoughts ground to a halt. By sheer reflex, he lifted the cup to his lips, ready to obey the kindly woman’s suggestion and drain it in one go.

  Then came a voice—cold as frozen flame, sharp with fury:

  “Did I not say to keep them separate from this place? Is that beyond your comprehension?”

  The hearth erupted, its flames surging like the gates of hell. At their heart hung a figure neither man nor woman, hovering like some divine—or demonic—being. More paled and dropped to her knees before the fiery apparition.

  All traces of cold vanished from the farmer’s body. Even the fabric in the room darkened and crisped, as if scorched by the visitor’s presence.

  The sheer unnatural spectacle jolted his mind back to life.

  They said the mightiest devils dwelled in the pit of Hell, their bodies wreathed in brimstone and fire.

  A trap… Was this a devil’s trap?!

  Preposterous as it was, he recalled then—he had been fishing by the river, lured here by phantoms he’d never seen before. Nothing about this was right.

  “No! Don’t kill me! Please!” Scrambling to his feet, he lunged for the door. Terror lent him speed, his limbs suddenly light and quick. He wrenched it open and fled.

  The accursed house’s exit wasn’t far. Amid faint sighs of regret, he burst free—only to trip on the threshold and plunge down the steps, into water once more.

  Thrashing wildly, he couldn’t tell which way led up. Frigid liquid gushed into his nose and mouth, burning like oil as it reached his lungs.

  It hurt—horribly. And yet… it was familiar.

  How long had it been? He was exhausted, his body bloating, yet somehow growing lighter. Before he could move, he felt himself rising.

  The surface neared. Sunlight dazzled through the water, still painfully bright for eyes so long in darkness.

  Then a shadow fell over him, softening the glare just enough to make sight possible.

  What he saw struck him like a hammer.

  His own face stared back—the one he saw every day in the mirror.

  Swollen slightly, pupils wide with the blankness of death.

  Seeing his own corpse floating facedown in the lake, the lost soul finally understood: he had been dead all along. Now, at last, he could go where he truly belonged.