“Another day.”

“What? Look, if you have something to tell me—”

“I do. A different story. You aren’t ready for the other yet. You don’t understand enough. I see that now.” She spun, her dress belling out, face raised to the sun. “You like it here. Do you know why?”

“I appreciate fine architecture and—”

“Don’t be silly. There are old buildings everywhere. But you’re drawn to this one. As he is.” She darted to the nearest wall and ran her hand over an ivy-filled crack. “It tells a story of our past. Of our revenge.”

“Our . . . ?”

She pointed at Gabriel. “His. Ours. Fae. Our memories. We can hear the laughter here, feel the joy, smell the fire, touch the pain, see the mighty hand of nature taking vengeance for us.”

She fingered the ivy, creeping ever deeper into the stone, those tiny green vines slowly but relentlessly ripping the stone building in two.

“Do you hear them?” she asked.

“No—”

“Because you aren’t listening. Close your eyes.”

I sighed, shut them, and crossed my arms. Gabriel murmured, “Olivia . . .” and I knew what he meant. I know this makes you uncomfortable, but we aren’t getting any answers as long as you resist.

I like my mysteries clear and real, with facts and clues that I can follow. Ego, I suppose. I wanted to solve the mystery myself, not stand before a ruined house talking to a child no one else could see.

I uncrossed my arms and let my mind clear, as I did when I was looking for omens. Shifted to that other state, where the smells and sounds of the real world faded and—

Laughter. Voices, too, speaking in a tongue I didn’t recognize. It didn’t sound like Welsh, though it had similar notes. I caught the strains of strange music, unlike any I’d heard, and I started toward it—

Gabriel caught my arm, and I jolted from that other place.

“Tell him what’s happening,” the girl said. “He’s trying hard to be patient, but he isn’t very good at it. He needs information.” Her voice rose to a singsong. “Data, data, data.”

“That was a quote,” I said.

“Perhaps, but it’s also him. Tell him what’s happening.”

I did. Before I finished, the girl took off, racing around the garages.

“Hey!” I said.

“The next part is over here,” she said. “Hurry or you’ll miss it!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I ran after the little girl. There was a tumble of ruins past the garage, some building not strong enough to withstand the crushing hand of nature. I picked my way around it and through a tangle of bushes and—

Three men stood there. I stopped short, backing up into Gabriel, who caught me. I glanced over at him. He was scanning the landscape—the field and trees, the lake just visible behind them. He gave no sign of seeing the men, and when I looked again, I realized why. The one closest to me was dressed in an old-fashioned hunting jacket and boots, his hair slicked back, with massive sideburns.

Men from a different era. Ghosts or visions. One leaned on a shovel. Another held a gun. The third was dapper, wearing gloves and a bowler hat. When I turned, the Villa and all its buildings were gone, and I saw only field and trees and holes. Construction had just begun.

“I’m telling you, there’s something here,” said the man leaning on the shovel. The foreman, I guessed. He had a thick Scottish accent.

“And I’m not denying it,” said the man with the hunting rifle. “We’ve got squatters, Mr. Mills. That’s what happens when you build on land long empty. Folks consider it theirs.”

The foreman shook his head. “If it’s squatters, then where are the huts? The tents? Whatever’s here, it’s not natural.”

“It’s perfectly natural,” the hunter said. “We’ve seen them and we’ve heard them. They’re canny, always flitting about, hiding on us. But you’re making a fool of yourself, Campbell, filling Mr. Mills’s ear with your old-world nonsense.”

“Mr. Napier?” The dapper man—Nathaniel Mills—spoke to the hunter. “I believe you have work to do. I want those fox holes cleared out today.”

“I’d rather be clearing the squatters,” Napier said. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I believe they’re a greater nuisance than a few foxes.”

Mills dismissed the hunter, and the man stalked off, grumbling under his breath. When he was gone, Mills turned to the foreman.

“Whatever’s out there isn’t canny at all,” Mills said. “It’s uncanny. Unnatural. I’ve heard laughing when no one’s there. I’ve seen figures that disappear in broad daylight. The other night, when I was walking the grounds with my dogs, I heard music and my hounds wouldn’t take another step. They tore back to the motorcar and cowered there. Napier might think me a fool for saying so, but I’ll believe what I see and what I hear. My granny used to tell me stories . . .” He peered across the wild yard. “Something’s out there, and I’ll not bring Letitia here until it’s safe.”

“You’re a wise man, Mr. Mills. Folks like Napier don’t understand. They think every danger can be fought with a good hunting rifle.”

“This one cannot.” Mills looked at the foreman. “I trust you know how it can be handled?”

“Not myself, sir, but I know folks that do. The question is how you’ll want it dealt with. Like those foxes, we can smoke them out and hope they’ll relocate. That’s what I’d advise myself.”