Fog snaked between the dense rows of headstones that leaned haphazardly in the soft earth. Millie looked down at them as she passed, gravel crunching underfoot, trying to glimpse their names, but most had been worn away by time.

By now, as she reached the churchyard, Millie was freezing. The tips of her fingers had gone numb and pale, and her nails had purpled. The skin on her nose and cheeks burned and itched.

Maybe freezing to death wouldn't be so peaceful after all, Millie thought as she hurried up the stone steps to the chapel doors.

The twin doors were made of solid dark stained wood and rose overhead, double-wide and twice her height, riveted with black iron bars. Its iron handle burned in her frozen hand as she took hold, but Millie kept her grip and pulled. The door rattled but didn't give.

It was locked.

Millie cursed under her breath and struck at the door, which only made her hand burn more. She turned, looking back at the house. Deep in the fog, it was just a large shadow, looming in the distance. A debate raged in her head, arguing whether she should just swallow her pride and return to where it was warm and safe.

But she couldn't do it. She hated that place more than ever. She wished she could just hide out here forever...

Gritting her teeth, she left the chapel steps and turned the corner, travelling alongside the side, in hopes of finding another door that had been left open. There was an exit at the back, but a quick tug on that door told her it was locked, too.

Millie was starting to shake now. The fog had dampened her cardigan, and it hung heavy on her whittled frame. She hurried back around the building, looking for another way in. As she paced, she noticed small, narrow windows along the foot of the stone walls, fenced in by iron gates. The room beyond the window was all stone, but the window's glass was too grimy to see much more.

Millie wondered if she could squeeze past the iron fence, kick in the glass and slither through, but she quickly abandoned the idea. In better times, she might've mustered the brawn, but the cold had sapped her strength. Her muscles had gone stiff and rigid, and it was getting harder to walk. Millie hobbled on, turning now to the churchyard.

There had to be somewhere else for her to hide out for a while. She wove between them, searching for a shed, or even a mausoleum—anything to give her shelter, just for a bit. She headed out into the churchyard, diving deeper into the sea of tombstones.

Soon the fog obscured the church, and Millie was surrounded on all sides by the stone monuments. Millie was shocked by their number. Usually, these private churchyards were small, keeping only the dead of the noble families that occupied the manor, but here there were so many...

Had the nuns kept adding to the number once they took over Wickford?

Whatever the reason, Millie was lost in them now. Wreathed in fog and stone, she had gotten all turned around. Was the shadow behind her the church, or the school? Whenever she headed in one direction, it was as though the fog swallowed up the shapes again, and she was going in the wrong direction.

A strong shiver shook through her, and the muscles in her leg gave a jolt, making Millie stumble. She caught herself on the edge of a stone, but her legs gave out beneath her. She was so tired. Tired of everything. Of Wickford, of the cruel nuns and hateful girls, of her negligent parents who ignored her pleas to come home, and even of her sister who always got what she wanted while Millie got only scraps.

Millie let herself sink into the frost-covered grass, leaning back against the headstone. Its edges dug into her shoulders, but she didn't care. It was oddly comfortable. She could've fallen asleep right there.

Maybe this is what Petra had meant.

Maybe this would be alright.

You can't let go, whispered a little voice at the back of her mind. I need you.

Millie's eyes fluttered open. The voice sounded like her sister. She could almost feel her presence, sitting beside her on the grass. She felt a pang of guilt for her last bitter thought. It wasn't her sister's fault she was here. And if she slipped away now, her sister would be devastated.

She turned, trying to push herself up. It was difficult. The muscles in her arms had gone stiff now, too, and she was shivering too hard to make them work. She sank back against the stone, her eye-catching on its carved face. Its design was simple enough, a single bordered edge with a winged skull resting on its top. Below the name, the inscription read:

Remember friend as you walk by

As you are now so once was IAs I am now you will surely bePrepare thyself to follow me

Millie let out a small laugh through her clenched, chattering teeth. If she couldn't get herself up and back to the school, she just might follow them...

Behind her, a shadow moved towards her in the fog, and steps crunched against the frost-covered ground.

"What are you doing?"

Millie snapped her head up.

There stood Matthew, the assistant groundskeeper. He did not appear to be suffering the weather as she did, as he was dressed for it in a thick coat and heavy leather gloves. A dirt-caked shovel was slung over his shoulder.

His face fell as he took in her shivering form. "Why the hell are you out here without a coat? Have you gone mad?"

"I-It's none of your business," Millie snapped. She tried to pull herself up again but faltered.

Matthew saw this and reached for her. With one hand, he managed to haul her up to her feet.

"It is indeed my business if a foolish girl is wandering the grounds, trying to catch her death of cold," he grumbled in a rough country accent. "You need to get back to the school."

"That's what I'm doing," Millie said, shrugging off his hands. But without his help, she staggered. He took hold of her elbow instead, keeping his distance.

"Then get going," Matthew said. "Why are you even out here? Students aren't supposed to be out here."

Millie was annoyed now, but at least her brewing anger warmed her somewhat. "What does it matter? Why are YOU out here?"

Matthew frowned. "It's my job."

The heat of anger flared, chasing back her shivers. "No, I mean why are you here, at Wickford? You're young and able. Shouldn't a guy like you be at the front, fighting for our country? Or are you some kind of coward?"

Matthew's frown deepened. He let her go, and for a minute, Millie thought he might turn and leave her here to freeze. Instead, he plunged his shovel into the ground and pulled at the glove of his right hand. Once his hand was free, he held it up for her to see.

His last two fingers, and a good chunk of his palm, were gone. A longer scar ran up his arm, disappearing into the sleeve of his shearling-lined coat.

"They don't want a 'guy like me,'" he snapped.

Millie shrank back, guilty.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Matthew gave a laugh, low and bitter. "I suspect there's much you don't know."

He tugged on his glove, and Millie noticed that the two empty fingers stayed folded in, sewn to the palm.

Now she knew why he always wore his gloves.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean it. I was..."

Matthew shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I get it. You're hurtin' and looking to hurt, right?"

Millie blinked at him. His expression wasn't that of simpering pity or repellant hate, but something softer, kinder. The same face flashed through her memory—she had seen it before when he had carried her away from the bloody scene of Petra's death. She had almost completely forgotten that he'd been there, that he'd helped her.

"Is that why you're out here?" Matthew continued, with a knowing look. "Looking for a proper place to grieve?"

Millie averted her eyes. "Something like that."

Matthew just nodded, then shed his coat and offered it to Millie.

"So you don't follow after your friend."

Millie hesitated but took it. It was warm from his body heat and smelled of earth and something deep and smoky. It was a strangely pleasant smell that tickled at her memory as if she could remember it from somewhere.

"T-Thank you," she said, pulling it across her shoulders.

Matthew just nodded again, then nudged her on. "Come on, let's get you back."

He left the shovel leaning against the grave and guided her through the churchyard, confident as he led her through the fog as though he had made this journey a hundred times.

They walked in silence. He didn't touch her but hovered close, in case she stumbled again. Millie glanced back at him, but his gaze was fixed ahead as if she wasn't even there. He was so calm, steady. He was like her sister. Millie wished she could be like him, strong in the face of hardship.

"T-Thank you," she said.

"You already thanked me for the coat," Matthew said, still not looking at her, though his brow folded together for a moment.

"No, I-I mean about that night. I remember you. You carried me to the infirmary."

Matthew's face tensed, almost a wince as if he was cringing back from his own memories of that night. "I was only doing what I was told."

"It was still kind. You were gentle. I mean, from what I can remember."

Finally, Matthew's eyes flicked down to hers—just for a moment before they turned back ahead. "You're welcome."

Millie couldn't think of what to say after that, so she let the conversation die. She turned her gaze ahead again. Wickford was taking shape in the fog. They were almost there.

"I'm sorry about your friend."

Millie turned back to Matthew.

Matthew was looking at her properly now. "She was your friend, wasn't she?"

"She was."

"The poor thing," he continued, and his face twisted up, as though he had tasted something foul. "No one that young should have to die, least of all like that."

Something pricked at the back of Millie's mind. There was something in the way that Matthew said 'like that' that made her stomach begin to churn.

"What do you mean—'like that?'"

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "You were there. You saw."

"Yes, but I... I don't really remember much of it. I think I kind of... blocked most of it out. So what did you mean, 'like that?'"

His face smoothed out again. "Oh. If that's the case, then maybe I shouldn't say."

A jolt of electricity surged through Millie.

He knew something.

She turned and stopped in front of him, blocking his way. "Tell me."

"​​I shouldn't," Matthew said, shaking his head. "If you've forgotten, then that's a blessing. Trust me, you don't need that in your head."

"No, please, please. Tell me, please!"

Matthew hesitated, studying Millie with shrewd, sharp eyes, before he blew out a long, low breath.

"Alright, alright," he said, and the muscles in his jaw went tight. "The girl died... badly."

"Badly how?" Millie pressed.

He paused. His eyes were bright—almost excited.

"Her throat... had been cut."

Millie froze.

Flashes of that fateful night played over again in her head. It was still just snippets, but the ones she had sharpened into clarity. Petra's body, a river of blood splashed down the front of her nightgown. Despite the dark, despite the muddle, she could see the gaping slash against her throat.

Millie shuddered at the memory.

Despite what she had been told, despite what they had said...

Petra had been murdered.

And the school had lied about it.

What really happened that night?