The Baron did not refuse Oz's request to see the river.
That, more than anything he said, unsettled Henrietta.
Refusal would have been easier. Easier to read. Easier to challenge. Agreement, especially so quick and so stiff, suggested something else entirely. Not cooperation. Containment.
"Of course," the Baron said after only a moment's pause. "It is part of the village. You are free to examine it."
His tone was even. Too even.
"I will accompany you," he added at once. "It would not do for visitors to wander unescorted after dark."
Henrietta smiled politely. "That is most considerate."
The Baron summoned two men to carry lanterns. They arrived promptly, as though already waiting nearby. Both were villagers. Both avoided Oz's gaze.
They left the house as the last remnants of daylight drained from the sky.
The fog thickened almost immediately.
It pressed in from every direction, reducing the world to a narrow corridor of lantern light and pale ground beneath their feet. The house behind them vanished after only a few steps. The village itself receded into muffled shapes and suggestion.
Henrietta walked beside Oz.
She noticed the way the Baron kept slightly behind them. Close enough to hear. Far enough to pretend distance.
"You mentioned tradition earlier," she said lightly, as though continuing a conversation from tea. "May I ask which custom requires burial before dawn?"
The Baron cleared his throat. "It is… an old practice."
"Older than the church?" she asked.
A pause. Small, but present.
"Yes," the Baron said.
Henrietta nodded. She did not write.
Oz watched the fog ahead.
"You were told to hurry," he said.
The Baron did not respond.
They walked on.
The village path narrowed as it approached the river, gravel crunching beneath their feet. Wooden fences lined parts of the road, some leaning, others newly repaired. Henrietta noticed charms tied to posts. Small bundles of herbs. Rosemary, bound with twine. Lavender woven into cloth.
Not decoration.
Function.
"They appeared recently," she murmured.
"Yes," the Baron said quickly. "After the deaths."
"After the first," Henrietta corrected.
The Baron faltered. Just a step.
Oz stopped.
The river lay ahead.
It did not announce itself with sound. It simply existed, dark and smooth, its surface untouched by wind or reflection. Fog hovered above it but refused to settle. The water looked less like water and more like polished stone.
The lantern bearers halted several paces back.
Oz stepped forward alone.
The ground near the riverbank was damp and uneven. The earth had been disturbed. Not once. Repeatedly. Footprints overlapped, some fresh, some partially erased.
Henrietta crouched.
"These lead back toward the village," she said. "None lead away."
The Baron swallowed. "People come here to mourn."
"They come," Henrietta said, "but they do not leave?"
Oz knelt, pressing his fingers into the soil. Cold seeped through his gloves.
Residual.
"This is where it crosses," he said.
"Crosses what?" the Baron asked sharply.
Oz did not answer.
The fog shifted.
Henrietta straightened.
"We are not alone," she said.
One of the lantern bearers turned.
A figure stood behind him.
It looked like a man.
At first.
His posture sagged as though sleep had claimed him mid-step. His shoulders were slumped, his head tilted slightly forward. His eyes were open, unfocused, staring at nothing.
"Martha's son," the Baron whispered.
The thing moved.
Slowly.
The lantern bearer shouted and stumbled backward, dropping his light. Darkness swallowed part of the path.
Oz drew his sword.
It cleared the sheath without sound.
The blade was plain. Dull gray. It reflected neither lantern light nor fog. The air around it felt heavier, as though something had been displaced.
The thing lunged.
Not fast. Not slow. Uncertain.
Oz met it halfway.
Steel passed through flesh with resistance that did not belong to either body or dream. The contact sent a sharp vibration up Oz's arm. The thing screamed.
Not aloud.
The sound struck the mind instead. A pressure behind the eyes. A sense of wrongness.
Fog convulsed.
The thing collapsed, its form breaking apart into pale vapor that evaporated before touching the ground.
Silence followed.
One of the lantern bearers retched.
"That was impossible," the Baron said faintly.
"No," Oz replied. "It was unfinished."
Henrietta knelt where it had fallen. She touched the air, then withdrew her hand sharply.
"Dream residue," she said. "Fresh."
The river rippled.
Once.
Then again.
Faces pressed against its surface.
Henrietta recoiled despite herself.
"They are not dead," she said. "They are waiting."
The Baron staggered backward. "This is blasphemy."
A voice rose from the water.
Gentle. Familiar. Comforting.
"Rest," it whispered. "You are tired."
The Baron clutched at his chest.
Oz raised the sword.
"You are early," he said.
The voice laughed softly.
Midnight had not yet arrived.
The fog surged forward, swallowing the riverbank in a sudden white rush. Lantern light flickered wildly. The sound of rushing water filled the air.
Then it was gone.
The river lay still again. Empty. Silent.
Oz sheathed the blade.
"It is learning," he said.
Henrietta closed her notebook.
"And now," she replied, "so are we."
They returned to the Baron's house in silence.
The villagers pretended not to watch.
But Henrietta felt their eyes. Fear sharpened curiosity. Curiosity bred blame.
Inside, the fire had burned low.
The Baron sat heavily in his chair.
"You did not tell us everything," Henrietta said.
"No," the Baron replied. "I did not."
Oz stood near the hearth.
"Who spoke to you," he asked, "after midnight?"
The Baron hesitated.
Henrietta waited.
"A voice," the Baron said at last. "It was kind."
Oz's jaw tightened.
"It told us the dead were restless," the Baron continued. "That delay would invite suffering."
"Whose suffering?" Henrietta asked.
"Ours," the Baron said.
Silence.
"And the river," Oz said. "Why does it matter?"
The Baron looked away. "Because that is where it began."
He told them then.
Of the vigil. Of the girl who drowned. Of the night villagers gathered by the river after midnight because sleep would not come. Of a man who spoke gently and said rest could be shared.
Henrietta wrote everything.
Oz listened.
When the Baron finished, Oz spoke quietly.
"Midnight is not an hour," he said. "It is a threshold."
Outside, the fog pressed closer.
And something waited for it to open.