The Thornwick Mansion stood before them, frozen in time.

  John studied it through the carriage window. It looked good. Three stories of gray stone and dark wood trim. Not a broken window. Not a sagging beam. Seventy years, and it looked like it had been built yesterday.

  The lots around it told a different story.

  Collapsed houses with half-standing walls, foundations choked with weeds. The ghost's neighbors had fled, their homes left to rot. A ring of destruction with the mansion at its center, untouched and perfect.

  Movement caught John's eye. A face in a window across the street. An old woman was watching them. The curtain fell back into place when she saw John looking.

  William climbed down from the driver's seat and opened the carriage door, helping Father Bevin out carefully and guiding the old priest's hand to his walking stick.

  John climbed down with the bouquet held carefully in his arms, and Cara followed. William reached up to her, offering his hand. She took it and stepped down. She didn't let go.

  Color rose in his cheeks, but he didn't pull away.

  John looked at all of them. "Play along with what I say when we get inside. He’ll let us in. He wants guests."

  John pushed open the iron gate and felt a pressure in the air, like invisible hands pressing against his chest. Enough to make his skin prickle.

  He walked up the stone path to the front door without hesitating. The others followed, staying close together.

  John knocked, and the door opened immediately.

  A butler stood in the doorway. Tall, thin, wearing immaculate formal attire. He almost looked real for a heartbeat, but John caught the tells. The way his clothes didn't quite wrinkle. The way his skin had no texture, no pores. The way his eyes reflected light like glass.

  John held up the bouquet. "Sorry I'm late.”

  The butler reached for it with perfect, measured movements. "For Miss Emily?" He held the flowers close, examining each bloom with care. "You chose well, sir."

  "I had help," John said.

  The butler looked at him properly for the first time. "Forgive me, sir, but I don't believe we've met. You are?"

  "Adrian Pembroke." The only name from the guest book John could recall. "Sorry I'm late."

  "Late." The butler's voice carried cool disapproval. "Mr. Pembroke, the ceremony was scheduled for two o'clock. It is now..." He trailed off.

  "At least I got here before the priest," John said, gesturing to Father Bevin and the others behind him.

  The butler froze mid-sentence, his form flickering. "But we already—" He stopped. Blinked. His expression reset, confusion wiped clean. "A priest. Yes, yes of course. Please, come in. All of you. Quickly now. The ceremony must begin."

  The butler stepped back, gesturing with his free hand.

  John crossed the threshold first and stopped, taking in the entrance hall. Marble floors stretched before him, reflecting light from crystal chandeliers. Dark wood paneling covered every wall. Exactly like the game. A frozen moment of wealth and elegance preserved perfectly.

  Behind him, Father Bevin's cane tapped softly against the marble. He stopped just inside, his head tilted as if listening to something no one else could hear. "It's strong," he said quietly. "Very strong."

  The air pressed in around them.

  Cara's fingers tightened reflexively around William's arm as she stepped through, her eyes wide as she took in the hall. When the door swung shut behind them on its own, she jumped. He steadied her without a word, one arm settling around her shoulders as his other hand tightened on the priest’s bag.

  John didn’t look back.

  The house had noticed them.

  The butler was already walking up the stairs. "The ballroom is to your left. I shall inform the master of your arrival."

  They could see other servants. A maid adjusting flowers that didn't need adjusting, a footman standing at attention beside a door. All of them too perfect. Too still.

  John slipped his hand into his spatial ring and withdrew Emily's finger bone.

  He held it, waiting. In the catacombs, she'd manifested almost immediately. But there was nothing. Just the bone in his palm.

  He frowned. Something was wrong.

  The bone began to rattle, and the mansion shuddered in response.

  A deep tremor ran through the walls. The chandeliers swung overhead, their crystals singing. Pictures rattled in their frames. The manifested servants all turned at once. Their glass eyes fixing on John with sudden, sharp attention.

  A figure appeared at the top of the grand staircase.

  The groom.

  He looked exactly as John remembered. Young, handsome, dressed in formal wedding attire. Dark hair perfectly combed. Posture rigid. But his face was drawn with displeasure, his jaw tight with the frustration of someone whose perfect day kept going wrong.

  He descended the stairs slowly, each footstep deliberate. His eyes were fixed on John. On the bone in John's hand.

  "You are not Adrian Pembroke." His voice echoed through the hall, cold and dangerous. "Adrian sent his regrets this morning. My good friend." His voice turned bitter. "So who are you? And why are you holding that?" He stared at the bone with growing unease. "This is my wedding day. She will arrive. She's just late. The ceremony will begin as planned."

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  John lifted the bone higher. "You know what this is, Edward."

  Edward's lip curled with distaste. "A bone? You bring a bone as a wedding gift?" His voice dripped with disdain. "How crass. And a liar on top of it."

  "The only one lying here is you," John said. "Let her out."

  Edward couldn't look away from the bone now. It trembled violently in John's hand. "I'm waiting for my bride," Edward said, but his voice had lost its certainty. "I don't have time for—"

  "Let. Her. Out."

  "NO!" The shout echoed through the hall. Edward's careful control shattered. He descended the stairs in a rush. Not steps, but a blur of motion, his hands curled into claws, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

  Moonfang was in John's hand before he consciously reached for it. He brought it around in a defensive arc, the flat of the blade connecting solidly with Edward's form.

  Edward jerked back with a sharp hiss of pain. Where Moonfang had struck, his form blurred faintly. He stumbled several steps away, cradling his arm.

  The entire mansion shook. A shudder that ran through the foundation. Plaster dust fell from the ceiling. One of the portraits crashed to the floor.

  Father Bevin's voice rose immediately, cutting through the chaos. "By Alora's grace, by her mercy—"

  Edward's eyes fixed on Moonfang. On the faint glow along its edge. "Moonstone." His voice shook with rage. "You brought a Moonstone blade and a priest into MY house!"

  The mansion shook violently. Chandeliers swayed. The ghosts servants turned towards John as one.

  "The others tried this," Edward snarled. "All of them failed." He spread his arms. "My wedding WILL happen. She's just LATE."

  John drove Moonfang down into the marble floor. The blade sank deep with a crack that echoed through the hall.

  Edward gasped, his hand going to his chest as if he'd been stabbed himself. The mansion groaned around them. The servants stopped mid-advance, frozen in place.

  "If I have to send you to the next life, I will," John said, his voice cold. "Or you can let her out."

  Edward stood frozen, glaring at John with hatred and pain warring in his expression. His form wavered, unstable. The mansion groaned again, louder this time.

  Then Emily appeared.

  Her ghostly form took shape beside John. Wearing her blue wedding dress. She looked at Edward with an expression of concern. Of love.

  "Hello Edward." Her voice was soft. Gentle.

  Edward's expression shattered. The rage drained away, replaced by pure shock. "Emily?" He took a stumbling step forward. "No. No you didn’t die, you left me."

  "I would never leave you," Emily said, her voice breaking. "Never."

  "The letter—" Edward's voice cracked. "You wrote—"

  "Letter?" Emily's brow furrowed with confusion. "Edward, I died on the way here. My carriage overturned on the road."

  "Died?" The word came out hollow. "No. The letter—you said you despised me. That you'd found someone else—"

  "I never said that." Emily's voice was barely a whisper. "I never would have said that. I died on the way to you." A tear traced down her translucent cheek. "They put me in the catacombs. It was so dark. I always hoped you would visit."

  Edward collapsed. Just sat down hard on the floor, all the fight gone out of him. His hand went to his breast pocket and pulled out a letter. Worn. Creased from being read a thousand times. He held it up to Emily with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking.

  As he looked up at her, John could see the rope marks on his throat.

  Emily stared at the letter. At the handwriting. "That's not mine," she said slowly. "Edward, I never wrote that. The 'e's are wrong. I always loop mine twice. And the crossbars on the 't's—"

  She tilted her head, studying the letter more carefully. Her expression shifted. "This is my sisters writing," she said, her voice going cold.

  "Sarah?" Edward's voice was hollow. He looked from the letter to Emily's face. "But... why?"

  Then it clicked. John could see it happen on his face. The memories rearranging themselves. Sarah standing too close, laughing too loud at his jokes. The way she'd find excuses to brush against him, to hold his hand a moment too long. Thinking it was just sisterly affection. That she was happy for them.

  "She was always jealous," Emily whispered. "Of everything I had. Every toy, every dress, every friend." Her voice broke. "The carriage. Oh Alora. It wasn't an accident, was it?"

  Edward sat frozen on the floor, the letter still clutched in his shaking hands. His mouth moved but no sound came out. The rope marks on his neck seemed darker, more vivid.

  John pulled Moonfang from the marble floor. The blade came free with a grinding sound that echoed through the hall. He returned it to its sheath with a sharp click.

  "But you still have a chance." Cara's voice cut through the heavy atmosphere, quiet but firm. She was looking at the ghosts, but her hand tightened on William's arm. "What happened was terrible. But you're here now. Together. You can still—" She looked at William, color rising in her cheeks.

  "Don't let the past steal what you can have now."

  Both ghosts startled at the sound of her voice, and Father Bevin stepped forward into the space between them, his cane tapping softly. "And we still have a wedding to perform, don't we?" His voice was warm despite the gravity. "That's what you both wanted. What you've been waiting for."

  The two ghosts stood in silence, eyes locked on each other.

  Emily moved first, drifting toward Edward. He stood slowly, his hand reaching for hers. He looked almost alive, his form solid and real from decades haunting this place. Emily was barely there by comparison, transparent as mist. But their hands met anyway, ghostly fingers threading together despite the difference.

  They stared at each other like they were the only two people in the world. Like seventy years hadn't passed at all.

  "Yes," Emily whispered. "Please."

  Edward nodded, unable to speak.

  Father Bevin clapped his hands together with surprising energy. "Well then! Let's get this wedding done!" He turned to Cara with a warm smile. "If you would, my dear? The ballroom needs preparing."

  Cara nodded and hurried toward the ballroom doors, William following close behind to help her.

  The butler glided forward, still holding the bouquet. He offered it to Emily with a small bow.

  Edward reached out and carefully plucked a single flower from the arrangement. He lifted it toward Emily's hair, trying to tuck it behind her ear.

  The flower passed through her translucent form and fell to the floor.

  Edward's face fell. His hand tightened on Emily's, and he stared at her with fierce concentration. Slowly, Emily's form began to solidify. The transparency faded, her edges becoming more defined, more real, until she looked as solid as Edward himself.

  Edward retrieved the flower from the floor and placed it in her hair. This time it stayed, resting perfectly among her dark curls.

  Emily smiled through tears streaming down her now-solid cheeks. She took the bouquet from the butler with trembling hands, holding it like the precious thing it was.

  Father Bevin approached Edward, touching his shoulder lightly. "Let's get you in position, shall we?" He gestured toward the ballroom. "The groom waits at the altar."

  Edward looked startled for a moment, then nodded. He offered his arm to the old priest, steadying him as they walked together toward the ballroom.

  John stepped beside Emily. "Someone needs to walk you down the aisle." He offered his arm. "If you'll have me?"

  Emily's face lit up with pure joy. "I would be honored."

  They stood together in the entrance hall, waiting. Emily clutched the bouquet tightly, her eyes fixed on the ballroom doors. Her foot tapped impatiently against the marble floor.

  From inside the ballroom, singing began. Cara's voice, clear and sweet, joined by William's steadier tones. A wedding hymn, old and familiar.

  John glanced at Emily. "Are you ready?"

  She laughed and pulled him forward with surprising strength.

  They nearly ran to the ballroom.