The lantern by the fireplace lights up white — rarest of all lights, a being that even the house cannot characterize. The Warden of Ash House feels her skin go nacreous in response to the guest’s expectation, feels the edges of her body shift. It’s nothing Warden has ever seen before. They stare at their hand, white as bones but with a gold sheen. Hard, poreless, and their joints feel stiff. Warden flexes their fingers, caught in the way light plays across their skin.

It makes the guest have to knock twice — a frantic pounding, and Warden jumps.

The guest on the doorstep sobs with fear at the sight of Warden’s face. They hold their arm tight, a pale, viscous fluid leaking out between the fingers. Their fear is so large that it would’ve choked Warden in early days. Warden’s pulse races.

“No, oh no,” the guest groans, and stumbles as the house tips them inside. Warden struggles to hold still under a renewed tide of panic. “I thought I’d found …”