I always forget how early night falls in Northern Englemark in late September, and how little I enjoy lurking outside after dark at that time. I rock from side to side with a groan, trying to take my weight off my legs, which are folded tighter than a paper dove beneath me. We've been crouched here for six hundred and sixty-six years, by my entirely unfounded estimate.

"I wasn't born to be a frog," I say.

Exie raises an eyebrow. "It's been fifteen minutes, Des."

"I want a lily pad. Or a bench." I cast a mournful look around. "All this garden, and no benches? Crying waste of good space."

"There are benches. They're just visible from the house. Also, you didn't want to sit on anything that has snow."

It is indeed snowing. This morning's sky decided we didn't have enough on our hands yet, and added a sorry, soggy ass to my list of woes the first time I tipped backwards while sneaking through this posh gardenscape. It's taken fifteen minutes just to navigate the shrubbery without getting caught, breaking something, or alerting the particularly ornery flock of starlings in a nearby juniper. The last time I made eye contact with the little buggers, I was sure they'd sing a song of sixpence and bake me in a pie. I don't like those beady little eyes.

I shudder. So many eyes.

"Can we at least sit under the hazel over there, where it's dry?"

"That one's visible from the kitchens."

"How do you know all of this?"

Exie pretends not to hear me. I have to admit, I've spent the last few hours retracting whatever fragments were left of my original impression of this woman I love. Exie knows her parents' manor in a level and quality of detail even I would aspire to, and we're not talking being able to recount stories on tapestries here. The first thing she did when we rolled up was hop the back wall with the agility of practice, and it's only gone uphill from there.

I sigh deeply and resign myself to the rapid aging of my knees as I wait for Exie's signal. Somewhere over the city's smoggy skyscape, the sun sinks beneath the covers of its western bed. I'd be jealous if joining it wouldn't involve flinging myself into the ocean to reach whatever celestial duvet our solar friend inhabits on the other side.

Exie holds up a finger. I stop bouncing on my haunches and at least attempt to think like the bush I'm supposed to be impersonating. A chattering not unlike the starling flock breaks out near the house's rear. Scullery workers don coats and shed stray bits of vegetable peel as they bundle out a small door into the garden. True to Exie's prediction, they follow a path that keeps us hidden from them, pausing only to wait for one another beneath an overwrought arbor with so much wisteria on it, it's difficult to tell which curls are metal and which are vine. Exie counts the workers as they hurry home. Only when a final boy has scuttled down the walkway does she rise. It's time.

Silent as a coverup of the Catholic clergy's crimes, Exie sneaks up to the door the workers left from. She slips a hand beneath a dancing pigeon garden statue and comes up with a key. The lock clicks open. We're greeted by a waft of warm, carrot-scented air. Exie pulls me inside and locks the door behind us.

The scullery of this house could occupy the biggest classroom of Melliford Academy back when it still had stones to stand on. I sniff about for residual kitchen-workers, then snag a biscuit from a covered tray. When I turn around, I'm confronted by Exie's outstretched hand.

"At least share," she huffs.

I retrieve another biscuit for her. Our folly quickly catches up with us, forcing us to pause and nibble in the scullery before we leave a trail of crumbs across the carpets like some reenactment of dumb children in a fairytale. It's worth it for the snack. When we've wiped our hands on nearby teatowels, Exie eases open another door and peeks outside. The tinkle of silverware on fine china sounds from somewhere up the hallway beyond.

Exie sighs and retreats again. "My mother's in the sitting room. Give it another minute."

I begin to count to a minute, because I can. It is, in fact, a minute and thirty-two seconds before a creak resonates through the ceiling overhead. Some ancient staircase sings the song of its people until what I can only presume is Exie's mother has retired to her rooms. More footsteps head for what Exie tells me is the kitchen. The house's servant pours herself a cup of the remaining tea. For a long time, the only sounds in the house are the faint grumbles of its cooling walls. The servant hasn't left yet. We might be here awhile.

I grab another pair of biscuits.

It's probably an hour before the servant takes her leave. We slip from the scullery and take small hallways to a servants' staircase. This one demonstrates a lot less operatic aspiration than its grander counterpart on the house's other side. We sneak up it together. We're let out into a hallway that would do the former Melliford Academy cathedral proud. Fluted mahogany columns line the space, carved as though their carpenter spilled a cornucopia over her handiwork. The floor is laid with carpet so thick, it might as well be grass. It eats our footsteps as we tiptoe to a room with a door tall enough to admit a stilt performer. Exie raps a subtle knuckle on it, then cracks it open. The room beyond is empty.

Exie bites her lip. Her gaze darts behind her for a moment, then back into the room. She beckons me inside. A quick tour of the place, though, only confirms that no one's been here for at least a few days. The room's been swept and dusted, but there's also a sprig of juniper in a small glass vase that's run out of water and begun to crinkle. Exie's eyes sharpen the moment she spots it.

"Come on," she whispers, grabbing it, then my arm to tow me back into the hallway. "I know where they put him."

In minutes, we're outside another door. Exie repeats the same knock, and someone startles hard inside. Exie tries the handle. It's locked. She breaks off a sprig of juniper and slips it under the door, then points to the lock and nudges me. I've only ever been half-good at lockpicking. This one makes it easy for me, thankfully, clicking open within a couple minutes. The person in the room still hasn't moved. I almost wonder if I imagined that initial startle, but then Exie pushes open this door, too, and someone inside gasps.

There's a young man here. When we slip into the room, he's backed against its other side, pressed to the wall in a nightgown, satin cap tipped askew. I have to blink twice to confirm what I'm seeing. Exie's brother could be her carbon copy if she cropped her hair and grew about a foot. He's also very much sane, if this response to us is any indication.

Exie yanks off the scarf over her face. "David? It's me."

It's his turn to blink. "Exie?"

She's across the room in a flash, flinging herself upon him in a hug that could probably asphyxiate a lesser human. I also remove my burglar's bandana. David's eyes flick from me to Exie and back again.

"What are you doing here?" he whispers.

"Getting you out," says Exie.

"You're supposed to be in school." Even as he says it, though, he falters. His expression turns firm again. "Don't make me call mom and dad."

"Des, find his dove."

David stiffens, alarmed. "What?"

Exie's fists have knotted in his nightshirt, pinning him to the wall. He tries to push her off, but he's uncoordinated, like he's not all here yet. There's a day-shirt slung over the edge of his bed. I probe its pockets and come up with the paper dove.

"Exie, what are you doing?" says David. "Let me go. You can't—that's important. I need it. I need to—"

"Sit down." Exie forces him to the floor. "Des, quickly."

There's a washbasin on a nightstand just steps away. I drop the dove into it and strike a match against the wall. David lunges for me, snarling. Exie drags him to the floor, hanging on with the grim energy of a bullfighting dog. I watch the dove burn halfway through before realizing what's about to happen. I snatch the discarded shirt and whip it over David's head, gagging him just before he screams. The dove goes up in a final puff of smoke. David slumps back in Exie's arms. I toss the shirt aside. Exie's hands flutter frantically as I kneel in front of both of them.

"Is he alive?" she whispers. "Is he—"

"He's fine."

Not even knocked unconscious. Either living with possession for years lends itself to a certain measure of resistance, or the remaining cultist spirits were weakened by the demon's death. David's eyelids flutter for a moment, then open slowly. Exie hugs him as he stirs.

"Sis?" he murmurs. He tries to struggle upright, managing only with his sister's support. Even then, he sways. He shakes his head again, like he's got water in his ears. "You're supposed to be in school."

"There's no school anymore."

"There's..."

"We burned it," I say. "Long story. Do you have warm clothes?"

"What?"

"We're leaving," says Exie. "And we're taking you with us."

"What? Exie, I can't just disappear. What are you—"

"Mom and dad think I'm dead. We have to go, Davi. We can talk on the way."

"They'll have a search warrant out for me. You can't just—"

Exie grabs her brother by the nightshirt and shakes him. "That school was a cult," she hisses. "It brainwashed people. We barely made it out alive. Mom and dad knew what they were doing when they sent you there. Do you want to come help us overthrow an island, or do you want to stay here forever with bars on your window and a lock on the door?"

The window is indeed barred—and cracked, like David tried to break out before the additional security was added. The door also bears the marks of someone clawing at the back of it, trying to throw the lock from the inside. David must have spent the days since we shot the demon throwing something of a half-possessed fit.

Exie's prompting, meanwhile, seems to get through to her brother. I keep watch while she helps a shell-shocked David gather his belongings. When he's packed, Exie sits him down at his own desk and retrieves paper and a pen from the corner of it. "You write," she says. "We'll leave them a message so you don't just disappear. I'll tell you what you need to say."

A/N: Hi friends! Given recent changes Wattpad has been making, this will be one of the last books I post on this site. If you want to keep in touch, learn when I move to other platforms, or get insider updates on my publishing journey, sign up for my newsletter—link in the comments, or in my Wattpad bio if you can't click it here!