Everything was changing.

And not for the better.

Louise slammed down a cardboard box, panting. She'd lived with some trying people over the years; there had been the Polish flatmate that insisted on hanging salt-cured meat in their pantry. An American flatmate that blasted music. Flatmates that stole her toothpaste, ran blenders before dawn, and never took the bin out.

But Ben was something else.

She watched as he taped paper to their fridge. Piles of boxes littered the kitchen, and she could hear scraping noises upstairs. Probably Vienna, angrily moving furniture around. She wasn't pleased to be sharing a room with Hugh. Louise knew this, because she'd howled about it at breakfast and then thrown her toast at the wall.

"There." Ben smacked the paper. "Done."

Louse frowned. "What is it?"

"It's a chore wheel."

"A what?"

"Chores," Ben repeated. "You know what those are, don't you, Bentley?"

She tilted her head, studying the fridge. The colorful wheel was straight out of her most hellish imaginations; their names were at the heart of it, surrounded by tasks such as "sort laundry," "school run," and "make dinner."

Louise tapped the first chore. "Laundry? Really?"

He shrugged. "What's wrong with laundry?"

"You're just looking for an excuse to steal my knickers."

"And do what with them?" Ben asked incredulously, and then held up a hand as Louise opened her mouth. "No, wait. I don't want to know what you're about to say." He picked up a heavy-looking cardboard box, depositing it onto the counter with a frustrating amount of ease. "Right. Which bedroom do you want?"

Louise's eyes narrowed. This had to be a trap. She had — well, had once had, Louise thought, her throat tightening — two older siblings. She knew how these things worked; it was all about reverse psychology.

"I want the smaller one," she said.

Ben paused. "You do?"

"Yup."

"Not the master bedroom?"

"You're taller." Louise shrugged, crossing to the cupboard. "It makes sense that you get the bigger bed."

Ben went back to digging through the box. "What if I want the smaller one?"

"Well, do you?" Louise poured a lethal amount of chocolate Shreddies into the bowl, followed by milk. Her one percent milk; Ben only drank skimmed milk, apparently. Because he was deranged. "I'm willing to negotiate."

Ben put a set of serving spoons away. "You should really have the bigger bedroom."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Well," Ben said slowly, "it isn't very gentlemanly of me to take it, is it?"

Louise stared. "This is the twenty-first century, Langford. I'm not a Victorian housewife that plays whist and sits around eating buttered bread." She set down her spoon. "You don't have to offer me the bigger room because I'm a woman."

"It just doesn't seem right."

Louise crossed her arms. "That's because you've been indoctrinated by gender norms."

"Bentley." Ben pulled out more spoons, looking exasperated. "I'm not trying to start an argument. I'm just trying to be polite."

"Well, I don't need your chivalry." Her voice was firm. "I should have the smaller room. In fact, I insist."

"Fine." Ben shrugged. "It's all yours, then."

He folded the box flat. There was a gleam in his eyes that alarmed her, and it was only when Ben left the room that Louise understood: he'd never wanted the smaller room. He'd outplayed her. The scheming prick had outplayed her.

She chewed her chocolate Shreddies viciously. Ben Langford had no idea what he'd started. None.

This was war.

The day devolved from there.

Vienna managed to get into a box of Ben's ketchup, which she began happily smearing on the wall. Hugh was scared of the movers, so he hid under the staircase. And Louise burned the chicken nuggets for Sunday night dinner. She'd rallied, fishing around in the freezer for fish sticks and peas, but both kids had taken two bites and then pushed their plates away.

Then — just when Louise had thought her day couldn't get any worse — she'd dropped the plastic plates on the floor, scattering peas across the kitchen.

Which, you know.

Brilliant.

"I can make dinner tomorrow," Ben said.

He was on all fours, scooping up peas in his hands. Louise had taken a more delicate approach, pinching each pea like a claw machine at a funfair.

"Let me guess," Louise said. "You're going to make steak?" She pinched a pea under the dishwasher. "Potatoes dauphinoise?"

"Coq au vin, actually," Ben said. "With truffle shavings."

Louise frowned. "I can't tell if you're joking."

Ben ducked his head, and she had the distinct sense that he was hiding a smile. "Vienna's done a great job with the ketchup." He nodded at the wall. "It's very Rothko."

Louise plucked a pea off a chair. "I have no idea who that is."

"Really?" Ben looked up. "He was an American abstract artist."

Louise stiffened. She thought back to the John Locke incident all those years ago, when Ben had teased her for thinking that he was just a character on Lost. She hadn't missed the collection of philosophical books that Ben had brought to the house. Or that he got a copy of The Times delivered and filled in the crossword over breakfast.

Louise, on the other hand, had hidden her stack of romance novels under her bed. The most adult thing she owned was a wine decanter, and she used it solely as a vase, a popcorn bowl, and to prop up her phone for selfies.

She tipped the peas into a dustpan. Studied the smeared ketchup. "I think it looks a bit like you, actually."

Ben's mouth quirked. "Stunningly handsome?"

"Painfully pretentious," Louise shot back.

She stood up. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she gripped the counter, squeezing her eyes shut. Something warm touched her hand.

"Bentley?" Ben's voice was low. "You alright?"

She shrugged him off. "Fine."

"You look tired."

"Gee, thanks," Louise muttered.

Ben held up his hands, looking exasperated. "I'm not having a go at you." He picked up the dustpan, scraping the peas into the bin. "You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

"I said I'm fine, Langford."

"Really?"

"I'm—"

Louise broke off with a yawn. Ben turned away, but she caught a flash of a smile first. Irritation flooded her. Good god, did he have to be so — so — smug? She switched on the dishwasher, then turned for the stairs.

"I'm going to bed," she announced. "Goodnight."

Ben's cheerful voice followed her up the stairs. "Sleep well, Bentley!"

Louise did not sleep well.

She spent hours turning over in bed, alternately imagining Millie smiling on those steps — the last time she'd seen her sister — and the accident. Louise sighed, glancing at her phone. Three o'clock. She wished that she could blame Ben for jinxing her, but truthfully, this was her usual sleeping routine these days.

She rolled on to her side, staring out at the darkness. The darkness stared back. Every part of Hugh's bedroom had been stripped of personality: the LEGO models were gone, as was the Harry Potter poster taped to the wall. The room seemed oddly empty without it.

And then she heard it.

A wail.

The noise was soft. Young. Louise sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest. That had to be Hugh — Vienna slept like...

Well, like the dead.

Although, Louise reflected grimly, that comparison felt inappropriate these days. She swung her legs out of bed. Sweat coated the back of her neck, and she felt unsteady as she stood; the whole room contracted and expanded like a pulsating flower.

She forced herself to step into the corridor.

A broad figure was already outside Hugh's door. Ben was dressed in striped pajama bottoms, and his white t-shirt rode up as he rubbed at his eyes, revealing a tanned strip of skin. Louise looked away.

"Did he wake you, too?" Ben asked.

"Yeah," Louise lied. "I heard him crying."

Ben's face was unreadable. "Go back to sleep. I can deal with this."

For a moment, Louise was tempted; she had work tomorrow, and the floor was still shifting beneath her like a boat in a storm. And she was tired. So goddamn tired. Then she realized that Ben was likely offering because he didn't think her capable of soothing a crying child, and her hackles rose.

"It's okay," Louise said. "I've got this."

Louise pushed into the room. She spotted Vienna first; the toddler was sleeping in a sea of plush toys, half-buried beneath sparkly unicorns and fuzzy horses. Hugh was curled up in a makeshift cot; moonlight filtered through the window, kissing his dark curls with silver. His small chest was rising and falling in gunshot breaths, his glow-in-the-dark rocket pajamas casting his face in a sickly green tinge.

Louise pulled up a chair. "What's wrong, darling?"

Hugh clutched the blankets. "I had-d-d-d a nightmare."

About what?

That's what came next. Louise knew it. She tried to speak, but the words lodged in her throat like cotton. Her heart sped up. She couldn't stop thinking of squealing tires, of glass shattering and her sister's scream. Had Millie died instantly, or had she bled out on the road? Had she been in pain?

Next to her, Ben smoothed a hand over Hugh's head.

"You're safe now." His voice was gentler than she'd ever heard it. "You're here with us, at the house. Remember?"

Hugh's chin wobbled. "I'm s-scared."

"That's okay," Ben said. "We all get scared sometimes."

"Even you?" Hugh asked.

Ben nodded. "Even me."

Louise looked down at her hands. Reluctant gratitude filled her, along with a healthy dose of self-loathing. And jealousy. She was willing to admit that was there, too. How did Ben do it? How did he remain so calm? They were drinking the same tea, but Ben found it lukewarm; for Louise, it was scalding.

"What was your nightmare about?" Ben asked.

Hugh sucked in a shallow breath. "It-t-t-t was-s..."

He broke off, shaking his head in frustration. Ben leaned closer.

"It's alright, Hugh." His voice was patient. "Slow down. Take a deep breath and try again."

Hugh inhaled, long and slow. His grip on the covers relaxed, and then he raised a hand, pointing across the bedroom.

"That," Hugh said.

Louise followed his finger to a large mirror. She could see the three of them reflected, ghostly shapes in the darkness, and she frowned.

"The mirror?" Louise asked. Hugh nodded, and her frown deepened. "You're scared of the mirror?"

She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned. She'd assumed that Hugh's nightmares were about his parents, but maybe it was better if they were about fang-toothed werewolves or vengeful witches. At least then, he could wake up from them.

Hugh shook his head. "Of her."

"Who?" Ben asked.

Hugh lowered his voice. "Bloody M-m-mary."

Oh.

Understanding struck. Louise glanced at the mirror; she'd forgotten that James had taken it upon himself to tell scary stories before bed. He would stand on a chair, holding a torch under his chin and delivering an Oscar-worthy performance. Had he told Hugh a story about Bloody Mary appearing in a mirror and gobbling up little children's souls?

Ben gave her a look that said it was a distinct possibility.

"Ah," Louise said. "Your room didn't have a mirror, did it, Hugh?" Either Millie had never put one in, or — more likely — she'd removed it in recent months. "I'll tell you what, darling: why don't you sleep in your old bedroom tonight? Would that be better?"

Ben looked at her sharply. Hugh nodded.

"Okay." Louise rose, holding out a hand. "Let's get you settled."

They padded across the corridor. It took ten minutes to get Hugh tucked in, and another five to convince him that Bloody Mary couldn't appear in reflective window surfaces. Ben was waiting for her in the corridor as she emerged, his arms folded across his chest.

"Where are you going to sleep?" he asked.

She gestured to Vienna's room. "Hugh's bed."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ben said. "That bed's tiny, even for you."

"Fine." Louise started for the stairs. "Then I'll take the couch."

Ben darted in front of her. "I'm not letting you sleep on a couch, Bentley."

"Then what would you suggest?" Exasperation rose. "The roof? The yard?"

"My bed," Ben said.

Louise blinked. "What?"

"Sleep in my bed," Ben repeated. "It's a king."

His voice was casual, the tone a neighbour might use to offer a cup of sugar. Louise's eyes narrowed. This had to be another trick. A trap.

"You don't even like me," she said.

Ben shrugged. "Consider it an act of selfishness. I'll feel guilty if you're sleeping on the couch."

"Fascinating," Louise said. "I didn't think you had emotions."

Ben's mouth quirked. "Take it or leave it, Bentley."

Louise weighed up her options. It was an embarrassingly short debate.

"This is temporary," Louise warned. "I'll come up with a solution tomorrow." She frowned. "And if you come anywhere near me in bed, I swear to God I'll take your vinyl records and run them over with my car."

Ben's smile grew. "I would expect nothing less."