Down the steps of the crypt, the silvery visage of a small girl descended with curly black hair, large brown eyes, and bare feet.

"Mama?" the girl said quietly in Romani.

Charlotte felt Jonathan tense and edged even closer, angling his body in front of her. But she knew he wouldn't be able to hear or see the little girl. He could hear the effects of the little girl's restlessness and nothing more.

"It's a spirit," Charlotte whispered.

Jonathan cast a look over his shoulder. "Where?"

"Right in front of you."

He stepped back, crowding against her. It was one thing to know the spirit of his wife was in the room. To realize an unknown spirit was only a few feet away and he couldn't see it must have been disconcerting.

Charlotte squeezed his arm and stepped past him, hand outstretched towards the little girl.

"Are you Elisabeta?" she said.

The little girl eyed her warily and glanced up the steps again.

"Mama?" she called, fear tightening her tone, causing her voice to rise in pitch until it cracked.

"What is she saying?" Jonathan said.

"She wants to know where her mother is."

Dead and gone a long time by now, Charlotte thought. Then what had caused Elisabeta to become so restless while her mother's spirit had passed on?

"I'll take you to her," Charlotte said.

Elisabeta stared. "You're lying."

The stone coffin to Charlotte's right slid towards her a threatening two inches. Not enough to pin her against the opposite wall. But it sent her scrambling back a few steps, heart racing.

The coffin stopped.

Even the most innocent spirit could turn hostile at a moment's notice when it encountered a living being. Especially a spirit like Elisabeta, trapped in a crypt for five hundred years. Those who visited the grave site to present their offerings at the makeshift altar outside wouldn't be able to communicate with her. She would see them, day in, day out, and remain alone in her silence and the cold of limbo.

Jonathan clamped his fingers around Charlotte's arm.

"We should leave," he said. "She doesn't seem interested in entertaining company."

"Wait, wait," Charlotte said. "I think she's...confused. If she wanted to hurt us, she would have crushed us with that coffin."

"That's still a possibility."

"It's not likely that she's encountered someone who can see her, let alone wishes to speak with her. Let me try." She turned her attention to Elisabeta. "If you tell me what keeps you here, I can help you."

For a minute or two, Elisabeta simply regarded Charlotte in silence. Charlotte braced herself for the coffin to advance again but it remained motionless.

Elisabeta was an old spirit, and small. Using magic against her wouldn't require much effort. But taking any amount of Charlotte's precious witchcraft reserves would be costly.

Then Elisabeta flickered out.

Charlotte twisted around, searching the crypt. But the room was empty.

"What happened?" Jonathan said.

"She disappeared."

"Is that good? Or bad?"

"It's too soon to tell."

A curl of cool air wrapped around Charlotte's wrist, slipping between her fingers.

Elisabeta had made contact.

But she was choosing to remain invisible to anyone, including Charlotte.

"Papa," Charlotte said softly. "You need to go."

"Absolutely not," Jonathan replied. "I'm not leaving you down here with—"

"She's shy. And scared. She can sense your misgivings about her presence and she's unsure what to make of you. That's all."

He hesitated. "The coffin—"

"Will not be going anywhere."

Still, Jonathan didn't move.

"I'll be fine," Charlotte coaxed. "Trust me, I'd prefer that you stayed. I don't like the idea of you waiting in the woods by yourself. But she might have the answers we're looking for."

Jonathan lingered a moment longer then climbed the steps and out of the crypt. Once he was out of sight, Elisabeta flickered into view again, her fingers gripping Charlotte's hand.

"He's just my papa," Charlotte said. "He wants to see that I'm safe."

Elisabeta traced one finger across Charlotte's knuckles.

"My papa wanted to see that I was safe, too," she said. "But it didn't work."

"What didn't work?"

"He prayed over me when I was sick so I would get better. I had a fever that wouldn't go away."

"Who did he pray to?" Charlotte asked.

Elisabeta twitched, her head angled to the side, shoulders hitched up towards her ears. Whatever memories Charlotte was bringing up were disturbing her. She had to tread carefully or Elisabeta would become too upset, possibly volatile with jealousy that she was trapped in limbo while Charlotte was alive and well.

"He put me here," Elisabeta replied at last.

"Who did? Your father?"

Elisabeta shook her head. "The voice. He didn't have a face. I can't leave because of the promise he made with Papa."

"What promise?"

"Mama was sick, too. So were my sisters. Everyone was. The voice without a face said no one else would get sick if Papa built this place over my grave."

Charlotte crouched in front of Elisabeta. The pieces were finally fitting into place. It made sense. Yulia had mentioned an arrangement with The Endless One that she wasn't allowed to speak of. And this crypt was the only grave site that was well-tended amid a cemetery overtaken by the wilds of the forest long ago.

This wasn't a crypt. It was a shrine. To The Endless One.

"Elisabeta," Charlotte said as calmly as she could. "Do you remember his name? What did your papa call the voice without a face?"

"I don't like him," she whimpered.

Her apparition shivered, guttering like a flame in the wind, threatening to be extinguished at any moment.

"No, no, it's all right," Charlotte said. "Don't go. You can stay."

"If you find his name, you'll say it and then he'll come."

If you find his name...

The Endless One's name must be recorded somewhere in this crypt. That's why Elisabeta was still here, five hundred years after her death. The rest of her family had passed on and found peace. But Elisabeta had remained behind because her death was the catalyst. She was the reason the arrangement was made.

"You have to show me where it is," Charlotte said. "When you do, you can go home to your mama again."

Elisabeta cast Charlotte a doubtful look. "You're just saying that to get your way."

Charlotte took in a steadying breath. Restless spirits were always distrusting, especially of the living who had everything the dead wanted but could never have again.

"Yes, I am, you're right," Charlotte said. "But I promise—"

Elisabeta grimaced.

Charlotte put a hand to her lips and bowed her head in regret.

"I'm sorry. The last thing you need are more promises. What I meant to say was that if you show me where his name is, I will make sure that he never comes near you again."

Elisabeta scratched at the back of one leg with the top of her bare foot.

"When other people visit, they bring gifts for him," she said. "Food. Flowers. Water. But you didn't. Why?"

Charlotte held Elisabeta's gaze. Whatever she said next, she had to choose her words with great care. She couldn't press Elisabeta for answers. The poor little girl was terrified enough already.

"Because I'm not afraid of him," Charlotte replied. "I want to get rid of him. That's why I came."

Elisabeta regarded Charlotte silently for several long seconds. In a blink, she was gone.

"Elisabeta?" Charlotte called.

Her voice echoed back to her in the empty crypt.

"I'm here."

Charlotte turned to see Elisabeta standing across from her, one hand splayed flat against the wall.

"This one," she said, patting the stone underneath her hand. "The promise is underneath it."

Charlotte stood and as she approached the wall, a fresh surge of heat radiated off of the wraithstone. She shoved it into the pocket of Jonathan's coat.

When she placed her hand upon the stone Elisabeta had indicated, it exhaled a rush of air like a sigh. Unlike the icy, damp stones around it, this stone was warm to the touch. She wedged her fingers into the cracks to work it free but it didn't budge.

Charlotte stepped back, searching for something to use—anything sharp enough and thin enough to pry the stone loose. But the crypt was barren.

Charlotte hurried up the steps and out into the dark forest, glowing with fresh snowfall.

"Charlotte?" Jonathan said. "What are you doing?"

She scattered the altar, overturning the plates of stale food until she found what she had hoped was there all along.

A knife.

The blade was speckled with rust and the wooden handle was soft and wet with rot but she picked it up anyway.

"Just fetching this," Charlotte said, brandishing the knife as she disappeared down the steps again.

Jonathan's eyes widened.

"What on earth do you need that for?" he called after her.

But she was too busy carving the stone from the wall to respond. The knife's handle quickly disintegrated in her grip but she held on anyway, even when the metal blade bit into her stiff, cold fingers.

Finally, the stone came free. The interior had been hollowed out and at the center was a bloody thumbprint with two names inscribed in smudgy charcoal.

Crafted from ash and bloodshed, The Endless One had said when she first met him. You're not any better than I am.

Elisabeta peered over Charlotte's shoulder. With one small, translucent finger, she pointed to the name at the top.

"That's Papa," she said.

Nicolae Dearlove.

Charlotte's gaze dropped to the second name.

"Don't say it," Elisabeta pleaded.

All Charlotte had to do was speak and The Endless One would come. He might be a fallen god but he was still a god. Saying his name was as good as a prayer. He had to answer it. She could finish him here and now.

Instead, Charlotte raised the stone above her head and smashed it against the crypt floor. She gathered the broken pieces and tucked them away into Jonathan's coat pocket.

"Now," she said, turning to face Elisabeta. "I gave you my word and it's time I carried through with it."

She dipped her head and brushed a kiss to Elisabeta's forehead. Cool air graced her lips.

"Rest in peace, little one," she whispered.

Elisabeta closed her eyes as a slow, gentle smile slipped across her face.

"I see Mama," she said.

Then she was gone.