Thomas Hale had never quite gotten used to the mornings in their Northampton house, though he had lived there long enough to memorize the way the light spilled through the lace curtains. The sun came weak at first, pressing in pale over the worn wood floors and catching the faint steam that curled from the kettle in the kitchen. Their home smelled of old books and coffee—the books his doing, the coffee hers. The shelves sagged with heavy demonologies, folklore volumes, and journals filled in his own cramped hand, and scattered among them were her smaller comforts: candles half-burned, pressed flowers between glass, the little charms she claimed made the place lighter. He believed they did. He believed everything she told him.

He leaned in the doorway and rubbed his palms together, warming them against the lingering chill of September. His reflection met him faintly in the glass cabinet—a tall man still broad-shouldered from the football years, though the muscle had shifted into something leaner now, shaped by work rather than sport. His dark hair had grown longer than he liked, his jaw shadowed in stubble from forgetting to shave, but his eyes still carried the steadiness she seemed to depend on. Once upon a time people had called him handsome, and once upon a time that had mattered. Now it mattered only that when she looked at him, she saw someone she could trust.

She was in the armchair by the window, drawn up in a shawl though the day was not cold, her hair spilling in loose strands that caught the sun. Her hand rested on the gentle swell of her stomach, and every time he caught sight of it a tightness wound in his chest—two months left, the doctor had said, though it already felt to Thomas like their child had become another presence in the house, a heartbeat inside a heartbeat. She wasn’t looking at him or the window. She was listening, he knew, to something just past the edge of sight. She always carried that distant look, the weight of her mediumship tugging at her, voices and shadows only she could hear. He worried it would drain her thin. She worried more about everyone else.

“Tea’s ready,” he said quietly, setting the porcelain cup on the table beside her.

She smiled, the smallest tilt of her mouth, and only then let her gaze slip from the unseen to meet his. He remembered the first time she had looked at him like that—seventeen years old, hair loose around her shoulders, standing by the bleachers while everyone else called her strange. He had walked off the field still sweating under the lights, gone straight to her as if pulled by something stronger than choice, and asked her if she wanted a milkshake at the diner. He had been told she was crazy. He had heard her whisper about ghosts and shadows when no one else would listen. But he had believed her. He had always believed her.

“Don’t fuss, Thomas,” she murmured, brushing his fingers as she took the cup. “We’ve got a case, remember?”

The case. A farmhouse in Sunderland, a family with two children who claimed the walls were scratched in the night, who heard footsteps pacing when the house was still, who swore furniture moved across floors while they slept. On paper, it looked like countless others. On paper, it always did. But paper didn’t bleed.

“You shouldn’t push yourself,” he said, softer now, though the line of his jaw had gone tight.

She rose, smoothing her dress over her belly with a quiet steadiness that told him arguing was wasted. She carried herself like iron beneath the gentleness, that same stubborn resolve that had carried them through the ridicule of neighbors, the whispers of the church, the nights they were called charlatans and worse. She never backed down. And God help him, he loved her for it, even when the thought of her stepping into darkness made his own blood run cold.