06   landscape with a blur of conquerors 

This morning, after Mercy had peeled herself from the confines of the bathroom, Noah had pulled her in the direction of Ronan's room. The space was drenched in the stench of a nightmare, tinged with blood and fear. Mercy had to put a hand over her mouth as she entered to stop herself from gagging. There was no mistaking the abnormal figure slumped in the room, cornered by Ronan and Gansey, was body. But it wasn't human-like: clawed and feathered, the monster was something out of Mercy's nightmares. It took five minutes for Gansey to calmly explain what had happened and another fifteen for the three of them to squeeze the corpse of skin and bone into the boot of the BMW. Then, in silence, they drove away with Ronan behind the wheel.

Now, standing in front of 300 Fox Way, the house is everything that Mercy's Siken Lane could never be. The little, bright blue house exudes the strange energy of Blue Sargent's family and their abilities. Mercy is no stranger to their story: an unknown number of residents and lost souls can be found within the walls, and willing customers can step through the front door to have their cards read or future told. No King has ever set foot through those doors, and Mercy won't be the first just yet. Where Fox Way is a warm mismatched mosaic of colour and patterns, Siken Lane is dark, shrouded in shadows and a coldness that no blanket or heater could ever melt. 

Mercy still hasn't been home, making do with the spare clothes in a duffle bag in the passenger seat of her truck. A leftover possession from her stint on the Aglionby Swim Team. Neither has Circe contacted her. Not that she particularly cares. Mercy leans against the BMW's back door. The redhead is buzzing, thrumming with unchecked energy. Her foot taps against the ground, headphones around her neck. She's covered herself with a black turtleneck tucked into a beige pleated tennis skirt to hide her string of bruises from prying eyes, and she's melting in the summer heat. Ronan had eyed her that morning and Mercy's skin crawled. What does he know? Or what does he want to know?

          "Jane, how do you feel about doing something slightly illegal and definitely distasteful?" Gansey's voice breaks through her thoughts.

Standing in the doorway of 300 Fox Way, Blue rubs her foot against her calf. A force of nature in mismatched, handmade clothes. She narrows her eyes. "It depends if it involves a helicopter."

Gansey shrugs. "No helicopters, this time."

          "Is this about Cabeswater?" Blue's eyes flick to Mercy, who's feet are crossed against each other and gaze locked on her nails, picking them free of blood.

Mercy grins mockingly, flicking her fingers at the Sargent girl.

          "No," Gansey says. His shoulders slump.

Blue looks past Gansey and Mercy to the trunk of the BMW, a bungee cord safely securing it closed. "Why is there a bungee cord around the trunk?"

          "It's a long story." Gansey replies. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

          "I guess I've never seen you in a T-shirt before." Blue says thoughtfully. "Or jeans."

Mercy studies Gansey, nose furrowed. She's never thought about it either. How in their days spent between the walls of Aglionby, Mercy has only ever seen Gansey as the version of himself that he puts forward and never looked any further. Tousled hair and hazel eyes, there's something purposeful about how he carries himself. Clean Gansey. The golden boy King of Aglionby Academy. The Gansey he slipped on each morning like his polos and his boat shoes. She'd watched it this morning as he stuffed his wallet into the pocket of his jeans and fiercely protected the Camaro from Ronan's dream thing.

          "It's for the distasteful thing." Gansey plucks at the T-shirt, holding it away from his body like it's a poison. "I'm rather slovenly at the moment, I know."

          "Yes," Blue says snidely, "slovenly, that's exactly what I was thinking. Ronan, I see that you're dressed slovenly as well." Ronan is dressed in his normal attire: jeans and a blank tank top covering the snarled twists of his tattoo. She looks at Mercy momentarily but says nothing, eyeing the tennis skirt and dirt-caked Doc Martens. "Shall I get into something more slovenly, too?"

          "At least put shoes on," Gansey replies. "And a hat, if you must. It looks like rain."

Mercy tips her chin to the clouds before sighing, pulling at her headphones around her neck. "I don't mean to be rude, but can we hurry this along. We have things to deal with."

Blue tuts at her. "Where's Adam?"

          "Picking him up next."

          "Where's Noah?"

          "Same place Cabeswater is." Ronan cuts in.

          "Nice, Ronan." Blue's lip curls. She retreats inside the house, leaving Mercy and the boys to stand outside. "Mom! I'm going with the boys to do ... something!"

Mercy rolls her eyes, pushing off of the BMW as Gansey turns to Ronan.

          "Let me be very clear: If there was any other place we could bury this thing without the fear of it being discovered, we'd be going there instead." Gansey says, firmly. "I don't think it's a good idea to go to the Barns, and I wish you wouldn't come with us in any case. I want it to be on record."

          "WHAT SORT OF SOMETHING?" Maura Sargent's voice echoes through the open doorway.

          "On record: I agree with him." Mercy interjects. She's aware her opinion doesn't count for much but feels like stating it anyway. Gansey's words are an obvious fact, but it goes hand in hand with another: Ronan Lynch loves the Barns more than anything else. "We could've gone to Siken."

Gansey shakes his head.

          "Great," Ronan's tone is disparaging. "I'm glad you two got that out."

Mercy scoffs, resisting the urge to cuff the Lynch boy over the head.

          "SOMETHING DISTASTEFUL!" Blue roars from inside the house before appearing at the doorway, green rubber boots and crocheted tights adoring her legs. Mercy eyes them with a raised eyebrow, mildly impressed. "What are we doing, by the way? And why is she here?" Blue points to Mercy.

          "Well," Gansey says, "the illegal part is that we're going to Ronan's family's property, which he's not allowed to do."

Ronan flashes his teeth at Blue, sharp and deadly. "The distasteful part is that we're burying a body."

           "And you," Mercy steps forward; voice a soft purr, "couldn't get rid of me if you tried. You need me."

The Barns are a living painting; a crumbling ecosystem of flooring beauty. Thunder rumbles, cursing amongst the clouds as Ronan pulls the BMW towards the property and rain patters lightly against Mercy's window. It's a reclusive property, masked within the safety of it's shadows, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful. Two stone pillars guard the entrance to the gravel driveway, ivy entangled around their roots. Completed by a collection of barns, goat houses and a kennel sprawled out rolling hills, and an unimpressive farmhouse is nestled amongst the grass, the property incites a longing within Mercy. She's once again surrounded by everything that Siken Lane could be: a home, welcoming and belonging so wholly to memory that you ache for it's warm embrace. Mercy feels ill. Her nose twitches. The redhead presses a hand to her empty chest, hoping the pressure will dismiss the gnawing feeling. It refuses to budge. Her headphones are secured around her ears, creating a divide between her, Blue and Adam who take up the other backseats of the BMW. Taking her hand away from her chest, Mercy curls her fingers into her skirt as they roll to a stop.

Doc Martens sinking into the gravel, Mercy kicks at the rocks, stepping into the freshness. She watches, observing carefully as Ronan steps out the BMW and takes in his home. There's an ache underneath his shark eyes; they've lost a degree of their harshness and gained the child-like quality of throbbing nostalgia, the ache of finding himself at home. Mercy looks away, feeling too imposing. Instead, she surveys the spilling fruit that litters the ground from an untended plum tree beside the car. She picks one up, rolling the plush fruit between her fingertips. Pushing down on the flesh, the juice seeps into her skin and spills over her wrist, coursing down the inside of her arm like blood flow. It looks like she has an open wound.

          "It looks like another country." Blue murmurs into the rain.

There's a light on in the farmhouse. Mercy notices it's flickering presence as she drops the fruit, taking up post by Ronan's side. She breathes in the green scent, open and earthy. The rain lands softly against her skin and hair, dampening the strands of red that spill onto the tips of her shoulders. She wonders where Ronan found her father's body. Which of the barns or kennels. Or maybe within the confines of the house. Was it close to the car or out in the fields. Mercy isn't going to ask. She knows what it's like to lose somebody, Mercy wouldn't spark the reoccurring grief that comes with death on anybody. Not even Kavinsky. But her curiosity is dangerously alive.

Pursing her lips, she steps towards the boot. "Let's get this over with."

Her words set everybody into motion. Gansey, Adam and Ronan round on the trunk, removing the bungee cord from around the trunk and watching it pop open. They're hit by the scent of dying flesh immediately. Ronan covers his nose with his hand, Gansey gags and Adam steps back, pressing his face into the sleeve of his jumper. Chainsaw flaps from her place on Ronan's shoulder, giving a squawk before soaring towards Mercy's shoulder and hooking her claws into her turtleneck. Mercy feels Chainsaw's beak in her hair, she's hiding from the rotting body. Standing around the trunk and looking down at the corpse, it doesn't take long for them to realise that they didn't bring any tools.

Ronan looks to Adam. "Einstein?"

          "Barn?" Adam suggests. "Tools?"

          "Oh, yeah." Ronan's chin jerks towards one of the barns. "This way."

Chainsaw returns to her home Ronan's shoulder, a hunch on the shadow of his back. Mercy huffs as she pulls herself over the wooden fence and into the rolling fields. She walks beside Ronan, carefully in step with her fellow Dreamer. They're silent with Gansey not far behind. Nose furrowing, Mercy's Doc Martens squelch in the growing mud, the brown dirt covers the boots from sole to heel. Her gaze flicks around her surroundings, eagerly catching every nook and cranny of the grounds—the old oak tree groaning against the rain, the crumbling wall of a barn over the hill, a strange smooth lump of brown yards ahead.

          "Kreck." Chainsaw spots the lump.

Ronan halts, staring at it curiously. "What's that?"

          "Is that ... a cow?" Blue steps forward, doubtful, but once she says the words it seems quite obvious.

Mercy strides past Ronan and Blue, hand outstretched timidly. She presses a careful thumb to the bridge of it's nose, feeling the soft fur beneath. The cow is not quite alive, but doesn't seem dead either. She rests somewhere in the middle, lying in a space of purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness. The cow's chest rises and falls with the splattering of the rain. This is what happens when a Dreamer dies and their dream things are left behind. She's seen this before. Mercy brushes her hair from her face, tucking her fringe behind an ear.

          "Is it dead?" Adam asks, making a face.

Ronan points silently to her flank, rising and falling with each breath. He studies her keenly, fur moving faintly underneath his gush of air as he leans close, breathing heavy. Chainsaw's head leans in between him, equally cocked, apart of the same living machine. There's moisture around her nostrils, drops of rain silently falling down the curvature of her nose. He waves in front of her eyes. She doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge his presence.

          "Non mortem," Ronan mutters, "somni fratrem."

Mercy makes a noise of agreement, humming. The redhead has paid enough attention to her Latin classes to understand Ronan's words, not far behind him and Adam in their class' rank. She crosses her arms across her chest, tucking blueing fingers beneath the safety of her long sleeve. This reminds her of Kavinsky.

          "What?" She hears Blue whisper.

          "Not death, but his brother, sleep." Adam translates.

Gansey steps closer. "Poke its eye."

          "Gansey!" Blue's protest is shrill, too loud, agony in Mercy's fragile ears. Kavinsky rings like an echo and Mercy tightens her hold on herself. Her neck aches.

Ronan is gentle, brushing a finger through the cow's soft, unblinking eyelashes, shivering slightly underneath the feathery touch. Gansey holds out his palm underneath her nostrils.

          "It is breathing."

Blue huddles close to Gansey, slipping between him and Mercy. She strokes the bridge of the cow's nose, wet hands leaving patches of darkness amongst her light hair. "Poor thing. What do you think's wrong with it?"

Mercy doesn't remember what it looked like the last time she saw something similar to this. She was too young, memory still fleshing itself out and carefully noting everything that she'd yet to learn to survive. But Mercy could never forget the vagueness—the vacancy of a thing that breathes but does not live. Chainsaw, another dream thing, doesn't overly react to it. Not like the creature. She keeps to Ronan's shoulder, tucked into the crook of his being. Mercy remains silent.

          "There's a metaphor for the American public in here," Gansey murmurs, "but it escapes me at the moment."

Mercy huffs.

          "Let's just go on before Gansey has time to say something that makes me hate him." Blue says.

They leave behind the cow, faces turned down away from the pouring rain, continuing towards the largest barn with no more distractions. The large sliding door is falling apart, bug-eaten and rotting from top to bottom.

          "Wait," Adam says warily, "what's that smell?"

Ronan's hand on the door pauses. Mercy hadn't noticed it before, the distinct odour of a barn in use. It's earthy and familiar, animal feed and the crispness of hay. Breathing in, she tries to spy through a crack in the door with no avail. Ronan pulls open the door as Mercy steps back, revealing dozens of dark figures scattered throughout the barn: a sleeping herd. Competing with the rain against the roof, the sound of dozens of animals breathing in unison echoes from within the belly of the building.

          "Sleep mode," Gansey says.

          "Hypnosis," Blue utters at the same time. She's silent for a moment, studying the sleeping herd. "Is this our fault, too? Like the power outages?"

Adam looks away.

          "No," Ronan answers. "This is something else."

Mercy shuffles through the door, reaching out towards the first cow within reach. She's as soft as the last one, Mercy's wet hands making marks against her pretty nose. The redhead almost coos, but withholds and chooses to cup the cow's chin, giving it a light scratch before looking backwards.

          "I've seen this before." Mercy says quietly.

Only Ronan hears.

           "Not to sound like Noah," Gansey begins, "but this is giving me the creeps. Let's find a shovel and get out of here."

The sawdust sticks to Mercy's muddy boots as she moves through the barn to the equipment room. She lingers by the door with Blue, watching Ronan take a spade, Adam a snow shovel and Gansey post-hole digger. Hand on her chest, Mercy's weight falls against the doorframe.

          "Did you really grow up here, Ronan?" Blue breaks the silence after a few moments.

          "In this barn?"

          "You know exactly what I mean." Blue's expression is pinched.

Ronan almost seems to choke on his answer, Mercy notes. His mouth opens, closing slightly as the venom wells and the pain spreads throughout his limbs. She knows it well. Shaking out your metaphorical limbs as the burning sensation crawls up your spine. Eventually you give into the pain, becoming sharp and cruel. Blue Sargent didn't pass him this match, but she's lit it and become a casualty of the fire all the same.

Mocking, Ronan snaps. "Yes. This was my castle."

Blue huffs. Her eyes flick around the barn before catching on something high in the rafters. "Look."

Mercy follows her gaze. There's a bird, white eyes bright amongst the darkness of the roof, but it's head still and beak silent. It's the same as the cow. Emerald plumage flickers underneath the ever-changing lighting and Mercy sucks in a breath.

          "Touch it," Blue whispers, stepping closer to Ronan's flames. "See if it's alive too."

          "One of you Poverty Twins should touch it," Ronan bites at Blue. "I touched the last one."

Blue meets him with equal measure. "What did you just call me?"

          "You heard me."

          "Gansey," Blue says with meaning.

          "You told me you wanted to fight your Ronan battles on your own." Gansey replies.

Mercy almost laughs. So willing to charge into the flames but not to suffer the consequences, to feel the burn. Oh, to be naive, to be so blind. She steps towards the bird, spying a chair in the corner and clasping her hand around it. It's Adam that meets her there, guiding the chair underneath his soft fingers and helping Mercy stand steady on the wobbly furniture. Her boots leave footprints on the wood. She presses a hand against the plumage, feeling it's chest move underneath the touch. It's breathing.

          "It's the same as the cows." Mercy announces. "Breathing but not moving."

          "Now check for eggs." Ronan says snidely.

          "Fuck you, Lynch." Mercy snarls, teeth baring. She didn't light this flame, it's not her job to control it. "I'm getting answers, the fuck are you doing down there, huh? You don't get to patronise me because of your own issues."

Gansey breaks the heat between Mercy and Ronan, "Are we the only things left awake?"

Ronan moves and Mercy's feral expression dissipates. He ducks, Chainsaw taking off from Ronan's shoulder and landing on Mercy's as he opens an old feed bin beside a table of cinderblocks. Dream things are glued to Dreamers. Sticking out a hand, he vaguely gestures.

          "Light."

Gansey clicks on his phone's flashlight and illuminates the bin. "Hurry up, this cooks my phone."

With the aid of Gansey's light, Ronan reaches all the way into the now lit up interior of the feed bin, locating an old feedbag. From inside, he carefully pulls a small mouse free, young and sleeping peacefully. It's old enough to move, to stretch it's tiny paws and crack the knobs of it's spine, but it remains content in the warmth of Ronan's cupped hand. He runs a finger gently down its back.

          "Why is it so tame?" Blue questions. "Is it sleeping, too?"

Ronan tips his hand, just enough to reveal youthfully kind and trusting eyes, soft with sleep. He keeps it away from Chainsaw's gaze, buried within the loose ends of Mercy's loose curls.

          "It's awake." He says, lifting his hand. Ronan presses the mouse's soft body to his cheek, shoulder rising with the warmth and eyelashes fluttering along with it's steady heartbeat. Blue watches carefully. He offers her the mouse. "You can feel its heart that way."

Suspicious but curious, Blue's forehead furrows. "Are you for real? Are you messing with me?"

          "How do you figure?"

Blue shrugs. "You're a bastard, and this doesn't seem like typical bastard activity."

Ronan smiles thinly. "Don't get used to it."

Apprehensive, Blue accepts the tiny mouse in her palm. She brings it to her cheek, pressing her skin to the hair and she smiles. It's heartbeat flutters underneath her bunched cheek. Blue offers the mouse to Adam. At first he doesn't take it, scared to break the tiny creature. But at Blue's eagerness, he too presses the mouse to his cheek before passing it to Gansey. The boy's face lights with a smile. Mercy shakes her head, refusing Gansey's offer to take it. Chainsaw can't see, still buried within her hair.

          "Astonishingly charming," Gansey reports brightly while tipping the mouse back into Ronan's waiting palm.

He holds the mouse over the bin. "Anyone want seconds before I put it back? Because it'll be dead in a year. Lifespan's shit for field mice."

Mercy frowns, scratching underneath Chainsaw's beak. Looking into Ronan's eyes, she feels as if she's staring into a mirror. She shakes her head, and Ronan slips it back into the safety of the feedbag, closing the lid.

          "Nice, Ronan." Adam says, turning to leave through the crack of the door.

Blue sours. "That didn't last long."

Only Gansey remains with Ronan and Mercy. He looks pensive, head cocking before he finally says, "Let's go bury this thing."

In the aftermath of burying the strange bird-like man-creature, Mercy leans against a shovel with blistering hands. She hasn't had marks on her hands like these since the previous summer—leather-formed blisters, late night fireworks and bloody knees. Soaked to the bone with a salted mixture of rain and sweat, her turtleneck is glued to her skin. She's fighting for breath, asthmatic lungs craving a hit of Ventolin but she'd left her pump at Monmouth Manufacturing in her swim bag. Mercy settles for raising her hands above her head to bring up her diaphragm and watching Adam pat down the last few shovelful's of dirt.

          "I have blisters." Gansey announces, jamming the tip his shovel into the ground. He stuffs a mint leaf into his mouth, chewing. "Nino's?"

Blue makes a noise of protest. Mercy shrugs wordlessly, uncaring of where they go.

          "I'm fine with anything," Adam's tired voice says. His vowels have shifted, contorting to their natural southern state. The same as Mercy's, soft and hospitable but something fierce.

Gansey looks at Ronan who looks as if he's considering something. Wiping the grime from his forehead, and rubbing a thumb underneath the leather straps of his wristbands, Ronan murmurs something soft too Gansey. The brunets eyes flick from Ronan to the farmhouse perched preciously a few yards from where they'd buried the body. He murmurs something in reply. Mercy pushes herself off the shovel, kicking a plum away from her boots and towards Blue. The Sargent girl kicks it back. Mercy smiles.

Without a word to anyone else, Ronan steps carefully towards the farmhouse. Mercy looks to Gansey. He shrugs, following Ronan at a respectful distance. The redhead falls into step with him, stepping through the front door before him when he offers. Inside smells like hickory smoke and boxwood, grass seed and lemon cleaner. Mercy eagerly sucks it in, running a hand over a table by the door.

          "I remember," Gansey says thoughtfully to Ronan, "when you used to smell like this."

Watching Gansey revel in something so personal strikes a chord within Mercy. Her heart fractures. The redhead has never had friendships like theirs. So close; so inextricably intertwined. Mercy is a little in love with the idea. She digs a finger into the skin of her wrist underneath a leather band, pressing her nail against grey-stained skin. Eyeing herself in the mirror, Mercy runs a hand through unconstructed and messy curls, carefully working through the kinks and knots. Her fingers are sluggish, tired. After a moment, she gives up, leaving it in it's haphazard state.

          "It feels the same as when you guys lived here." Gansey almost marvels into the house. "It seems like it should be different."

          "Did you come here a lot?" Blue asks.

Gansey and Ronan exchange a glance.

          "Often enough." Gansey replies.

An exhausted Adam pushes himself off the doorframe. "Could we get some water?"

Ronan leads them through the hallway of the house into the kitchen, quaint and old but comfortable all the same. There's a plethora of bits and bobs that litter the kitchen. The Barns' house isn't the same kind of rich as Gansey's family, old money and black suits. The Barns is an amalgamation of no-fear-for-wanting—mismatched antiques, art hanging from string on the walls and hand-knotted rugs against the floors. A museum of the Lynch family. Mercy can't help but feel at home surrounded by the Dream energy. She can feel it thrumming in the air like electricity. Her own energy sparks. She presses a finger to her nose, making sure that it's not leaking.

          "Remember how I told you that Dad — my father was like me?" Ronan points to the toaster on the bench. 

          "That?" Gansey raises a brow. "Is a toaster."

          "Dream toaster."

          "Sick," Mercy says, wholeheartedly.

Adam laughs soundlessly. As she walks the length of the kitchen, Mercy traces a finger along the bench, feeling the grooves imprint into her skin. There are similar appliances in Mercy's home, a vast collection of pots, pans, toasters, waffle irons and more all pulled from Circe King's dreams. They've always been tight on money, pulling things from your dreams make it easier. But there was still a cost. With every thing that Circe pulled from her nightmares, there was a thing wrong with it. The pans non-stick didn't last very long. Some of the pots have holes in the handles and sometimes the bases. Toasters always slightly over-toast Mercy's bread and the waffle iron is in the shape of a wonky star. For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.

          "How can you tell?" Gansey asks.

Ronan silently slides the toaster out from the wall. There's no plug, no battery panel, and still when he presses down on the lever, it begins to glow. Just like home.

          "What's it run on, then?" Adam questions.

          "Dream energy," Ronan answers simply. Chainsaw stretches her beak curiously towards the toaster, only to get smacked away. She huffs in complaint, hopping towards Mercy. Ronan looks back to Adam and Gansey. "Cleanest there is."

Adam's eyebrows raise. "Politicians wouldn't be pleased. No offence to your mother, Gansey."

          "None taken." Gansey waves him off.

          "Oh, and that," Ronan points at the calendar, magnetised to the front of the fridge.

Mercy watches over Blue's shoulder as she thumbs through the pages. Though nobody has been around to change the month, it doesn't matter. With each new page it's stamped with the same title: April, and every photo is the same: three black birds resting on a fence, puffed up and grumpy.

          "Are these vultures or crows?" Blue asks, nose practically pressed to the page as she analyses it.

          "Crows," answers Ronan at the same time Adam answers, "Vultures."

          "What else is here?" Gansey asks. He's shining, Gansey the Boy splattered across his face in child-like curiosity. Mercy's only ever seen him like this amongst the pages of his journals and the model of Henrietta the previous night. "Dream things, I mean?"

          "Damned if I know," Ronan replies. "Never made a study."

Gansey looks around, grinning. "Then let's make a study."

Mercy groans, but she joins them, fumbling through cabinets and poking at items on the countertops.

          "Phone doesn't plug into the wall." Adam notes. He turns it upside down, peering into it. "But there's still a dial tone." He moves on. "Microwave's not plugged in, either."

          "There's a spoon with two ends." Gansey adds.

Mercy decides to pitch in. "A postcard for the Bermuda triangle on the fridge."

Suddenly a high-pitched whine emits throughout the kitchen, and Blue smiles sheepishly. In her poking about, she's discovered that when one of the seats is rotated, it wails a tune that sounds mildly like "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" but played faster than Mercy could ever want or need.

         "That's a fucking nightmare product if I've ever heard one." She comments, pushing aside a stack of newspapers.

         "Goddamn it." Gansey curses lightly. He drops a knife onto the counter, shaking out his hands and squinting at his red fingertips. "It's red-hot."

The knife appears normal—stainless steel with a black handle. It's heat is only evident through the slight singeing of the counter beneath it's touch. Mercy cringes. Gansey uses a dishtowel to place it back in the knife block.

          "Well, this isn't frustrating." Adam comments, pulling out a tape measure that stops exactly at two feet and six inches, refusing to move anymore. "I would've thrown this out the morning after."

          "Perfect for measuring bread boxes," Gansey points out. "Maybe it has nostalgic value."

Blue calls from out in the hall. "What about this?"

Mercy moves through the kitchen and out into the hallway to stand beside her. Blue and white lilies are gathered, bunched into a vase on a table. They're soft, plush and alive underneath Mercy's fingertips as she thumbs them. They're alive. Adam points this out before moving on, stepping into the dining room. There's a mask, out of reach of prying hands, and hung on the wall. The wooden smile is stretched, filled with sharp teeth. Mercy's feels as if she's seen it somewhere before. Ronan hurls himself through the air and into Adam, gripping his wrist before Mercy can even register that he's moved.

          "No." Ronan's voice is iron, raw in the deep dark of his throat. "Don't."

In that moment it is all too much, the pent up energy of the Barns coursing through his body. The spark lights his match and the flame roars, Ronan's hand driving itself into the wall of the house. His skin splits, knuckles crying with panicked voices. Flinching, the sound of his fist colliding the wall again Mercy steps forward.

          "Lynch, stop it." She says, carefully cupping a squawking Chainsaw.

          "Oh, come on, Lynch." Adam says. "Are you trying to break your hand?"

Ronan snarls. It's something wicked and fierce. His leg kicks out, the basket full of recorders and penny-whistles clattering against the walls. Someone moves past Mercy in a flash of brown, and a hand grips Ronan's arms: Gansey. His grip is tight, expression even tighter.

          "Ronan Lynch," Ronan's spell break and the fire evaporates. "Stop this right now. Go see your mother. And then we're leaving."

He lets his grip hold for a moment, making sure that Ronan has heard what he said before dropping his arm. Gansey turns, rounding on Mercy and Adam. "Were you just going to stand there?"

Mercy holds up Chainsaw.

          "Yeah," Adam replies.

          "Decent of you." Gansey says.

Adam's stare is blank. "I can't kill his demons."

Mercy turns on her heel, following Blue and Ronan into the sitting room. If the house is an amalgamation of no-fear-for-wanting, the sitting room is the epicentre. Covered from ceiling to floor in a feeling distinctly Lynch. There's three siting chairs facing one another on an uneven floor, leather and mismatched. There's thin umbrellas and dull swords pinned to the walls; rubber boots and pogo sticks lining the white walls; rugs in tight scrolls in the corner, and an iron chandelier hanging in the centre in the room.

But there, in the middle of the business, Aurora Lynch rests peacefully. Mercy feels as if her stomach as been punched, spiralling into the past as flashes of blonde hair and echoing laughter takes up the brunt space of her mind. Her fierce grip on the wooden doorframe barely keeps her tethered, and she forces herself to stand straight. It isn't her. Mercy forces herself to look. Aurora looks calm, another example of the vacancy of a thing that breathes but does not live.

          "Just like the animals," Blue whispers before Mercy can open her mouth.

Aurora Lynch is just another dream thing.