Paloma stood at the window as she waited in the small study, the lacklustre lace curtains hanging limply either side as condensation fogged the glass before her. She watched a gaslight flicker in the street like a dying star, casting an amber glow across the slick, wet cobblestones. The branch of a birch tree tapped against the glass pane like a crone’s bony finger, the only shred of nature that was resilient enough to survive the dense smog and pollutants of the kingdom that was submerged in perpetual darkness. The Bluffs were a combination of haunting beauty and grim decay, with the church’s towering spires and brooding stone gargoyles looming over the shadowed streets below like sentinels. But beyond the little village that stood alone on the moors, a lamenting grey sky loomed over sprawling lands, shrouded in fog and swarming with monsters that Paloma only witnessed in her worse nightmares. Her eyes rove across the landscape, as hilltops peered over the blanket of fog that swirled like cold water, and old ruins blackened from centuries of brutal weather stood alone amongst clusters of leafless trees. She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat at the thought of being lost in the fog, of stumbling through an undergrowth of tangled brambles, desperate for a sign of light or life. At least, that’s what she imagined for George. His hunting group had returned the previous afternoon, his horse without a rider in tow. The saddlebags were still attached and filled with all of his essential supplies, which meant that her husband was out there in the fog with nothing but the clothes upon his back. The breeze rattled the glass panes, and sheets of rain began to slide across the landscape, hissing and whooshing in the wind that grew stronger. The hinges of the mahogany door clicked behind her, but she did not turn. “The second search party has returned m’lady, and I am afraid they have found nothing,” she only nodded once at Simon’s words, not even turning to acknowledge him. He had been the leader of the hunt, after all, and he was George’s older brother. He should have been looking out for him. The house seemed to tremble from the storm as Paloma paced the study, the fire in the hearth now simmering to hot orange embers. She stoked it gently as a chill rattled down her spine, but the wood had burnt to cinders. A whisper startled her from the task at hand, and she immediately scanned the room, her eyes flaring with surprise. No one had entered, and the sound hadn’t seemed to come from anywhere in particular. Shadows crept up the panelled walls, closing in on her as her eyes rove to the window once more. She squinted, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she walked to the window and peered out. A figure stood in a clearing beyond the village. Not George, in his riding gear albeit weathered from a night alone in the harsh conditions, but a woman in white, her long obsidian hair whipping in the wind like tentacles. Paloma ran a hand down her face. She had not slept a wink all night, not eaten or drank, only stood watching from the window of the study. Perhaps she was delusional. She squinted once more, focusing on the spot where the woman stood. She appeared to be wearing a white nightgown, the fabric crumpled like parchment, her face so pale like she had drank from the moon. Paloma watched her lips move, and somehow, she could hear her. “Did you think you could avoid me all those years?” she croaked, and Paloma’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. Her eyes welled with salty tears, and her bottom lip trembled. “I was only a child when I made that bargain, I couldn’t have known—“ “You were appropriately warned,” the witch countered, and Paloma shook her head fervently. “Anything, you can have anything you want. But not George, not my George,” she begged, her fingers now pressing into the glass of the window. “I assured you that your desires would not come without sacrifice,” “He is my only desire, please don’t take him,” “How you have changed from that spoilt, vain little thing you once were,” the witch hissed, “there is something else, I would be willing to take.” Paloma’s heart skipped with the buoyancy of relief. “Anything, anything,” she crooned. “Come to me, and I shall tell you.”