What paths I took from that accursed larder, I do not know. I stumbled down halls and corridors, through seldom-used rooms and chambers filled with shrouded furniture—ghostly sentinels of the manor's previous life—until I found myself in a small parlor.

Despite the house's lack of occupation and the temperate weather, a fire burned in the hearth. Behind the closed door, the air had grown smoky and stifling. I would have turned and walked out immediately if not for the undraped French doors leading to the garden.

They presented an invitation enticing me to the outdoors. Which, after all, had been my goal all along.

I took up a cut crystal lamp with a decent amount of oil still in its base. It was of a type that was rich but quite common in my youth. And although it had been many years since I lit one, the movements came back to my hands as if it were still a daily practice. Once done, I discarded the match in the fire and wasted no time exiting the house.

The lamp's small flame flared in the twilight, illuminating my feet on the flagstone path, but blinded me to everything distant. No sound was present beyond the oceanic rush of wind in the trees and the droning of hidden insects.

It was a fine night for a stroll. Were it not for the breeze, I could have removed my jacket and have been quite comfortable. The air cleared my head and calmed my nerves. And it did, in fact, feel more oxygenated than the variety found in the city. I took mighty lungfuls of it and tasted hints of grass and cedar.

Thus restored, I soon grew more at ease than I had been since first coming to Foxcroft House three—or was it four—days previous.

The start I had in the kitchen was all but forgotten, or so I thought.

It proved to be but lying in wait, merely biding its time to return its cold acid to my veins. For when a large, vaguely equine figure rose up on my path, my pulse burst forth with the impact of a gong, sending my limbs trembling from the force. I reared back, and the lamp nearly fell from my fingers and dashed against the stones.

Had I been certain it was a horse in front of me, my apprehension would have quickly vanished, but no stables were near. And Emrick did not seem like the sort to let a prized animal roam free. So, my mind conjured up all sorts of terrors that the wild forest might unleash.

With forced courage, I raised the lamp toward it, in part for clarity but also as a warning. Doesn't fire scare the monsters away in the old tales?

With the shifting of the light, the individual leaves forming the beast became plain, revealing it as nothing more than a piece of topiary. A forced laugh broke from my throat, ending the silence of the night and shooing my misplaced fear away.

I walked toward it and admired the sculpture of a unicorn in mid-trot that emerged from the dark. Beyond it, the path was flanked by a plethora of extraordinary creatures. I passed a griffon, a sphynx, a centaur, and others. Off on side branches, there were countless more. Although, my little light revealed little more than hooves and tails, snoots and beaks.

It must be quite the sight by the light of day. Not to mention a paean to hard work and artistry. Did Vernon do this? Or does Emrick bring in some other worker for this delicate task? Either way, it hardly seems to be the subject matter for the stern doctor. This was much too capricious and fanciful. Perhaps it was for the amusement of the lady of the house—when there had been a lady of the house. Or for children?

I am so captivated by these wonders, I do not immediately notice I am being observed.

If not for the flutter of white fabric, I might have missed her entirely. But there she is, the woman I spied from my window. She rests her hands on the iron bars of a gate set into a high hedge. Her eyes peer at me through locks of stringy matted hair.

What had appeared golden from a distance was dull and showed no signs of washing or care. Her virginal white gown was nothing but the simplest of shifts, gray with filth. The lace cuffs and hem tattered and coated in clusters of burs. Leaves and streaks of mud clung to her bare skin.

"Are you alright, miss?"

In response, she flung her body at the bars, an arm stretched toward me.

"Are you hurt? I'm a doctor." This was still technically accurate, although I hadn't seen patients for several years.

I moved quickly and bridged the distance between us, but she withdrew at my approach. Each step she took, kept her from the full glare of my lamp, and with her retreat, the shadows reached out of the night and clung to her. As I reached the gate, she hissed at me. The sound was that of an animal, primitive and brutish. Then she fled, running off across the lawn toward the woods.

The gate proved locked and kept me from following. I called after her, trying to calm her. Trying to convey trust in my voice, although it most likely transmitted nothing but my bewilderment.

In the end, I could do nothing but mark the passage of her ethereal white form, which all too soon was lost to the gloom.