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Chapter Text

The advertisement had been dodgy, and more than a little vague. The fact that Harrowhark was considering it proved just how far she'd fallen. But after the latest saga with yet another roommate incapable of respecting personal boundaries (and who was always liable to stir up all manner of noise and disturbance at any given hour,) Harrow could bear her abysmal living situation no longer. She simply had to escape.

That her prospective abode of refuge more resembled a horror house than the quaint, old-fashioned country estate it had been sold as on line hardly seemed to matter.

After all, she did not need creature comforts, unless you counted silence and solitude.

"And" she reminded herself again and again as she wove her way up the steep, gravelly drive to the front doors, "I'm sure to get those in abundance out here, anyway." For an unbeatable price.

So what if the yellow paint was peeling off in wide, sad swaths, revealing the dirty grey facade of the house hiding behind it? So what if the many windows were horrible and small and grimy. So what if all the bells in Harrow's head were ringing like a flock of rampaging alarm clocks. She would not be deterred by silly film inspired misgivings.

That, and she'd paid more than she could afford to be dropped off out here.

It was either stand around and wait for the potential murderer to burst from the trees and get her or go inside and see if this place was actually fit for human habitation. Harrow chose option two.

On approaching the door, she saw that the knocker was shaped like a fist. A skeletal fist.

This was where the average person would have, perhaps, heeded the flock of distressed alarm clocks buzzing in the back of their brain and ran like hell, awful roommates or no.

But Harrow merely picked up the knocker and knocked three times. She waited exactly thirty seconds and knocked three more times.

It wasn't as though she'd come unprepared. She'd brought a rather sharp knife, just in case. The comforting weight of it in her enormous coat's pocket eased her mind somewhat, even as she watched and listened for any sign at the door.

After the third round of knocks, it swung open so fast that Harrow took a giant leap back. The knife fell out of her pocket and clinked loudly as it skittered away down the steps.

The man standing on the threshold seemed almost as startled at her sudden presence as she was at his.

He ran a hand through his greying hair in a frazzled, distracted sort of way and said, "Ah! Oh, oh bother. You must be the applicant, then?"

To which Harrow, with all the dignity remaining to her, replied, "The applicant? You can't mean I'm the only one?"

The man sighed, long and wearily. "That you are. Well, in that case, you'd better come in. Welcome to Canaan House. Would you like some tea and biscuits?"

Harrow would not like tea and biscuits. She privately vowed not to take a single sip, if she could avoid it, but saw no point telling this stranger so.

She was about to follow when he turned around and said, "And, uh, you'd better get that," he gestured to the knife still lying on the stone. "Don't want to leave one of those lying around. Unless you're, like, planning my demise or something, ha-ha."

Harrow, furious at herself for having revealed it in the first place, hurriedly ducked to retrieve it.

"Of course not. It's just... one can't be too careful."

"Fair enough. I don't blame you."

The man led the way down a hall. It was the kind of hall that vacuumed up every bit of natural light which somehow managed to creep in, the majority of electronic light, too. The kind that stretched and stretched further into the house like the widening throat of a snake. It was the kind of hall that had been built to be lined with portraits already thick with dust from the first moment they were hung.

Eventually, they came to a door left mostly ajar. This room was brighter. And cozier, too.

"Determinedly cozy," Harrow thought. "Uncannily cozy." As though the room's natural inclination was to be dark and dreary, but somebody had forcibly installed enough lamps and cushy armchairs to squash the notion for good.

Harrow perched on the edge of one of these much-too-soft armchairs. It was only now, sitting across from him as he busied himself with the kettle, that she noticed her host was wearing pinstriped pajamas, a housecoat, and, of all things, fuzzy slippers. This was not shaping up well.

"And," she said, deciding to take the plunge, "You own this place, I presume?"

The man poured two cups of tea and pushed a biscuit in her direction. She ignored both tea and biscuit, awaiting his response.

"Yes," he sighed, gazing off into the distance into realms only he could see, sighing again. He seemed to sigh with every other word.

This was really not shaping up well. Harrow didn't think she could abide much more. But she soldiered on. She was nothing if not desperate.

"And you said you won't be staying here?"

The man sipped his tea, winced, and nibbled at a biscuit to recover.

"No, no. I'm taking a sabbatical. A much-needed sabbatical. For a whole year." He seemed profoundly morose at this prospect but rallied, continuing in only faintly brittle tones. "Think I need some fresh air. Or a change of scenery. At least, that's what my daughter always says. Anyway, to answer your question..."

"Harrowhark," Harrow supplied.

"Harrow. I'll be out of your hair. You'll be on your own. You can do what you want with the house in my absence. Throw a rager, for all I care. Just be sure to replace any broken windows and don't do anything funny in the..."

"I assure you nothing of the kind will be happening on my watch."

He gestured expansively with his biscuit.

"Of course not. I don't know, make use of the library, if that's more your speed. No one's bothered with it for ages. Go nuts. I just can't, don't want, to leave the old place completely empty. Call it stubborn sentimentality. She requires a lot of upkeep, you know."

Harrow was uneasy. "My tenancy does not include renovation, does it?"

She had a mental image of herself banging little bits of metal into some shapeless, wooden thing with other, larger bits of metal and nearly fled right there and then.

The man—her landlord? shook his head.

"Oh no. I've already got someone lined up for that. Don't you worry. She'll be taking care of general maintenance stuff. Like I said, I just want someone to air out the other rooms from time to time. Live in them a little. Don't want things getting musty."

"And you'd rent to me? For, well, for the price you listed?" Harrow was skeptical. In her experience, things that seemed too good to be true ended up being worse than even she, in all her pessimistic glory, could predict.

The man's shoulders slumped but his gaze was keen as it focused, truly focused, on her for the first time.

"Why not? You seem a responsible enough young person."

Harrow wasn't at all sure she'd made a good first impression, but a deal was a deal, and this creepy old house in the middle of nowhere was precisely what she'd had in mind.

"Well then, we ought to go over the details."

She reached out and shook the hand he held out to her. Firmly but not too firm, just as she'd been taught.

"Wonderful. Let's," said the man, and smiled. Harrow could have sworn there was something oddly familiar in that smile, some expression she recognized from a long time ago and on an altogether different face, but it disappeared in the blink of an eye and his face went back to its bland unremarkability. "I'm John, by the way."

And that was how Harrowhark Nonagesimus found herself the sole occupant of Canaan House.

Or so she believed.

***

Harrow would have liked to say she dreamed that first night, alone in the house.

She would have liked to say that she saw those eyes again, those golden eyes that haunted her, even now, or that smile. She would have liked to say she had some vague premonition of what awaited her. But she did not.

What she did do was carefully lay out all her possessions on her bed, to be unpacked some time else, neglect to make herself dinner (again,) and "go nuts" in the library at the back of the house until she lost consciousness and fell face first atop her book. She slept like a hunk of carved marble that had long since tumbled off its plinth, utterly unmovable, and did not dream at all.

That was why it took her several bleary moments to register the shriek.

"What the ever-loving mother-fuck are you doing in my house!"

She jerked awake, blinked rapidly, saw a shadow lurching toward her in the dark.

Acting on reflex, she threw her impromptu pillow in the shadow's direction. From the pained "humph" sound that followed, she guessed she'd hit her target.

But then, the shadowy figure regrouped. It was holding something in its hands, a long and narrow something. Without warning, they flung it. Whatever it was arced through the air, aimed directly at her head.

Harrow ducked beneath a table just in time. Thinking quickly, she tipped it, sending several tacky novelty mugs stuffed with pens showering to the floor. Ceramic shattered, spraying out in a wide, vicious ring. A few stray pieces grazed her cheeks. Tiny rivulets of blood were trickling down her chin.

"Fuck!" cried the interloper and Harrow briefly allowed herself to believe she'd achieved the victory. But then the voice continued. "Oh, if I get murdered defending his stupid mug collection, I'm gonna be so pissed. Who the hell are you, you weird little creep? Don't think I don't see you under there. Come out! I have a baseball bat and I'm not afraid to use it."

So that was the object they'd chucked at her face. Harrow would not be intimidated.

She clambered to her feet, brushed a pile of 1 Dad mug dust off her clothes, and straightened to her full (if not very tall) height.

"Don't come any closer. I have a knife."

The shadow figure did something completely unexpected. They laughed.

"Let me guess. Is it a big, kinda dull, completely useless bread knife?"

"It was," Harrow didn't even know why she was entertaining this conversation or what the intruder was hoping to gain by it. "It is perfectly serviceable."

"Well, unfortunately for you, it won't be servicing anything. You know why?"

Harrow's stomach knotted horribly and sank like a stone. She knew perfectly well why, now that she'd had a minute to regain her faculties.

"Because," said the shadowy figure, advancing slowly, "I found it in what I assume is your coat pocket in the parlor. That was how I knew something was up. So now you're going to tell me what you're doing in my house."

Harrow's whole frame was buzzing with indignation. She sniffed and glowered magnificently, before realizing whoever it was couldn't see and so would not receive the full effect.

"Your house? Your house? This is my house. I just got the keys today, in fact. You are a thief, most likely, and not a very good one by all accounts."

To her total shock, the shadowy figure stopped in its tracks, lifted what looked like a hand to their face, and groaned.

"He didn't. Really? I'd have thought he would at least have the wherewithal to tell me if he actually did it. Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"I'm really, truly not."

The figure groaned again, and then stomped over to a wall, fumbling for a switch.

"This is a fucking nightmare. An absolute shitshow. Why the fuck wouldn't he say anything? You know, a casual, "Before I go, most beloved daughter, I just wanted to inform you that I've finally decided to rent out the house. This is the person's name, photo, and background information just so you don't worry you're secretly living in one of those psychological thrillers I like." That would have been a nice going-away present. But no. Doesn't say a word. Just shuffles out to his cab sniffling over how much he's going to miss his exes' sunhats. Fuck man!"

Harrow wiped the blood off her face and tried to sound as calm and venomous as she possibly could. "Excuse me? What are you talking about?"

The lights flickered to life overhead, dimly illuminating the half-destroyed library and the girl standing near the doorway. Harrow blinked.

The girl flung herself into one of the few chairs that wasn't lying on its side, burying her face in her hands.

"I convinced him to get out of the house. Go somewhere warm where they serve you those cute little drinks with the umbrellas, maybe. Take a break. Clear his head. So what does he do, do you think?"

Harrow did not know whether she was meant to answer or not, so she said nothing.

"He takes up sailing. Good, I thought, great. New hobbies. But then, then he hooks up with the sailing instructor half his age and all the sudden he's booked a year-long trip with the guy and recruiting strangers to live here, no offense, without so much as a by your leave."

"That would be the owner. John?"

The girl rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yep."

"And you are...?"

"His daughter."

Harrow nodded, beginning to see the shape of the shitty, shitty tangle they were in. "Right. General maintenance."

"So that's what he's having me do? Yeah. Sure. If it's broke, I'll fix it. No problem." There was more than a tinge of bitterness in her voice.

Harrow chose to ignore it for now. She had to get one very important thing straight and she had a feeling she really, really wasn't going to like the answer.

"You aren't living here, are you? I mean, full time? For the whole year?"

"You mean he didn't tell you?" The girl sighed.

"He said I would be on my own," Harrow said, a little defensively. "He said renovation wasn't contingent on my staying here. He said..." she took a deep, calming breath. "He led me to believe you would be around only if something needed repair."

"Something always needs to be repaired in this house," the girl grumbled.

"I've noticed."

"Yeah, well, what he didn't tell you was that you'd be alone... with me. Because I live here."

For a moment, all Harrow could do was stare at the girl who was, in turn, staring through her fingertips. She could just see her eyes peeking through. Her bright, gold eyes.

Harrow took a step back like she'd been punched. At present, a good, solid punch might have been preferable to this.

Because she'd only ever known one person with eyes that shape, that color, and she'd never expected to see her again.

"Gideon Nav," she choked out. "What the hell?"

The girl uncovered her face at last and took Harrow in fully, from face to shoes then back again.

"Nonagesimus?" she said, with wide, disbelieving eyes. Then she threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, this has got to be some cruel joke. Come on. My dear old dad leaves me in this stupid old house for a year with Harrowhark Nonagesimus of all people? Nope. Sorry. I don't believe it. This can't be real. I'm going to go to sleep and tomorrow morning you'll be some rando I've never met a day in my life. Good night."

She made to slip out the door, but Harrow darted forward and snatched at her shoulder, pinning her in place.

"Trust me, I-I'm just as surprised as you," Harrow said through a snarl.

Gideon was attempting to wriggle free. It was taking all Harrow's strength to hold on. She knew she couldn't keep this up much longer, but she'd be damned if she had to wait till morning to have this out.

"I'm not doing this. I'm calling him right now and telling him I'm not doing this. He can put his midlife crisis on hold for like five minutes, come back here, and deal with it because I sure as hell am not."

"You have to."

"No. Look, I don't know how you’re here or why you’ve decided to show up all of a sudden. At the worst possible time, might I add, but I really don't. Not tonight. I think I need about five hundred years to take this in.”

Gideon gave one final, decisive shrug that sent Harrow careening away as easily as a rag doll.

"Well, it's not as if I'm thrilled about this, either!" Harrow called as Gideon Nav stormed out of the room and disappeared down a dark hall to who knew where. "But running away is absolutely pointless."

"Like you would know," came the angry retort from somewhere in the vast recesses of the house. "Have anything but a good night, Nonagesimus."

And Harrow did.

Chapter Text

It did not take Gideon Nav five hundred years to reconcile living with Harrow. It took about twelve hours, give or take a few long, painful minutes. Harrow had counted.

At half past eleven the next morning Gideon strode into the library like a general entering a war room and plunked down on the chair right next to Harrow's.

Harrow snapped the book she was pretending to read shut and turned to face her.

Gideon, much to Harrow's chagrin, was still wearing her pajamas. They consisted of a T-shirt with an image so graphic and detailed Harrow had to fight the urge to cringe away and shorts that Harrow's parents would have burned in a fire for indecency. Granted, for Harrow's parents, anything less than full ankle to collarbone coverage would have been indecent and therefore condemned and burned, but Harrow still thought it was highly inappropriate, not bothering to dress for this. They were virtually strangers for God's sake. Or, rather, they didn't used to be, which somehow made whatever they were now much, much worse.

"Ugh, Nav, you look dreadful!" Harrow said, in lieu of anything better, which, gaging from the look on Gideon's face, would have been quite literally anything else.

But it was true. There were big, puffy bags under her eyes. Her bright red hair was dull and plastered to her head, uncombed. She looked like she'd forgotten how to sleep for a century then ran a marathon in the desert. It didn't suit her.

"Just as charming as ever, I see," Gideon said.

Harrow huffed. "Oh, you know I didn't mean it like that. Did you even sleep last night at all?"

"What do you think? Take a wild guess. You're not looking so good yourself. Did you? Oh wait! I forgot! Creatures of evil don't need normal things like sleep. My bad."

"Really, Nav?"

"Yes, really. How did you think this was going to go, Harrow?"

Harrow, who had spent ten hours curled up in a fetal position in the shadowiest, most cobwebbed corner of the library, fists clenched so tight her fingernails had made little indentations in the skin of her palm, agonizing over this very scenario, sighed.

"I'm telling you, once again, that I had no idea you would be here. I-I had no idea where you were, period."

"You never bothered finding out, either," Gideon said. Then, as though catching herself, added, "Not that I ever wanted... not that I was ever expecting you to, or anything. Don't be getting any wrong ideas in that despicable little brain of yours. It's just..."

"A lot?" Harrow offered.

"Yeah, a lot. A metric fuck ton of a lot."

"I'll concede you that."

They sat in stony silence for a while, watching streaks of sunlight dance amid the dust motes.

Finally, Harrow cleared her throat. "I did," she ventured tentatively, looking anywhere but at Gideon, "I did put your name into a search engine every now and again, to be sure you hadn't died or that nothing too horrible had befallen you. Well," she admitted, "Nothing newsworthy, at any rate."

Gideon gasped and clapped a hand to her chest in mock gratitude. "Oh joy! Lucky me! No, you know what? What's... how long's it been? Ten years?"

Harrow nodded, feeling every second of those ten years falling like cement blocks on her shoulders.

"What's ten years of complete and utter silence, when I know that at least good old Harrowhark was regularly scanning the web for my obituary? Really puts a smile on my face. A pep in my step."

"You are deliberately twisting and misconstruing my words," Harrow snapped. She felt delicate, tenuous, teetering on the edge, a novelty mug about to tip off a table and shatter. She dug her nails into her palm even harder and willed herself to keep it together.

"What about your promise, Harrow? Did I misconstrue that, too?"

Harrow did flinch this time. She opened her mouth, wanting, needing to say something, but Gideon held up a hand to cut her off.

"Don't. I get it. I really do. But don't expect me to be flattered by your concern. Honestly, I think it would be better for both of us if we just didn't talk about it. BEE."

"But..."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Fine," Harrow spat. "If you don't want to hear my explanation, I won't make you. But may I ask you for yours? The last time I saw you, you were an orphan. How-how did this," she gestured wildly around the room, "Happen?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you display an astonishing lack of tact?"

Harrow shrugged. "Thrice in the last week, yes."

Gideon rolled her eyes. With a gut-wrenching pang, it finally registered in Harrow's mind that she'd been staring.

"I guess this is kind of a weird situation and I need to vent and you're already here, so why the hell not?" She gazed out the window and seemed to shrink in her chair, almost drawing in on herself.

Harrow folded her hands in her lap and waited.

Eventually, Gideon spoke.

"It's been a long time. Ten years. Shit happened. I changed."

"And I didn't?"

Gideon leveled her with an uncharacteristically cool, searching look.

"No. You, Harrowhark, are exactly how I remembered."

And for some reason that she could not quite fathom, that single statement made Harrow feel unconscionably rotten.

But Gideon breezed right along like she hadn't just plunged Harrow into an icy pool.

"Okay, okay. Where did we leave off? Oh, yeah. All that with your parents... happened. They were resettling us with a new family every other week because nobody could stand to take us in for long. You made your promise. Then, one day, you were just gone. No note. No forwarding address. No nothing. Right. So, I was alone and eleven and bored and I wanted to know if somebody was out there for me. You know that whole childish fantasy where some cool, rich celebrity drops in one day and is like: "Hi, kiddo. You're my long-lost daughter who I've always wanted but never knew I had. How would you like to live in my super sick mansion and have housekeepers to fold your socks?" It was all very Annie, really. I got pretty obsessed with that whole idea. And so I saved up to buy one of those kits. It took me years."

"Kits?"

"You know, one of those DNA kits, the ones that match you with distant relatives? Or I thought it would match me with a distant relative. I still remember the day I sent out the packet. I couldn't sleep for weeks, waiting for the results. And then they finally arrived. And my mother was dead, just like I'd always been told. But there was someone else listed there. My dad. And he lived pretty close, too. So one day I snuck out and showed up at his doorstep with a suitcase and that paper in hand. I thought he'd pass out from the shock. Come to think of it, I'm still not actually sure he's recovered yet."

"And he had no idea he'd..." Harrow cleared her throat meaningfully.

Gideon stared back at her, uncomprehending.

Harrow was forced to finish her question aloud, despite her best efforts.

"He had no idea he'd conceived you?"

"Conceived? Ugh, Harrow! No, he didn't have a clue. Apparently, it was a one-night-stand and he doesn't even remember her. At least that's what he's told me, and frankly, I really, really don't want to know."

Gideon and Harrow exchanged a look of understanding for the first time that day, and shuddered, equally disgusted at the thought.

"And you like it, living with him?"

Gideon pondered this for some time before answering, rather slower than before.

"I don't know if I like it. I mean, he's alright. Sure, he's a little too into puns. And, like, he's got this weird thing with the house. But he's my dad." She shrugged. "I guess I just feel kinda bad for him. Especially after the break ups."

"Break ups?"

"Oh, yeah. His partners broke up with him. They did it together. Out of the blue, about six months back. Then, they took off on one of those shitty cruises for sad retirees, apparently. It was a whole thing. And he's been pretty shattered ever since."

"Hence the sailing instructor?"

"Yep. Hence the sailing instructor."

"I see."

Gideon reached out for a now mugless pen, clicking the top over and over.

"I see you've swept the library."

"It was the least I could do. I did promise not to break things. And besides, I kept picking ceramic out of my feet."

"Still. I don't think anyone's swept in here for a thousand years."

"Has anyone ever told you, Nav, that you are entirely too dramatic?"

Gideon stroked her chin, pretending to blow out a smoke-ring. "Oh, once, maybe." Then, with a wicked grin: "Or thrice."

Harrow prodded her with another newly mugless pen, but all Gideon did was laugh harder.

She gave up, turning to a coffee table, which held a notepad and even more unhoused pens. She moved one of the mugs that had been spared from their fight the night before off the open page and contemplated throwing it. It was a truly hideous mug. It had the words: BEE The CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN the WORLD, and a tiny bumblebee emblazoned on it. Harrow desperately wished it had smashed and vowed to do it someday, with or without Gideon's approval.

"What's that for?" Gideon said, leaning over to peer at Harrow's tidy scrawl. "Are you writing your thesis?"

Harrow straightened, all traces of humor abandoned.

"No. It's a list of strictures by which we ought to live to ensure our mutual comfort and privacy while we're sharing this house. I wrote them all out last night. If you'd waited another thirty minutes more to show yourself, I would have pinned them to the refrigerator door for you."

"Rules. How thoughtful. Just what I always wanted."

"You were the one who said you couldn't stand the idea of living with me. I thought this would simplify things, make it more bearable."

"Yeah, alright," said Gideon, tracing a finger from line to line as she read, "Some of these make sense. But no loud music after eight at night? Sorry... what?"

"It's distracting."

"How about ten?"

"Nine-thirty."

"Fine. But hold on. What's this one about?"

She pointed to the tenth item on the list.

It read: Keep to our own sides of the house to minimize interaction.

"You can pick which side you want, obviously," Harrow explained. "And which individual rooms. But I think it would be best if we avoided running into each other as much as possible. The house is plenty big enough. There are at least eight entrances and four staircases, so that shouldn't be a problem. And if we eat our meals at separate times, you never even have to know I'm here. I thought that would be a suitable enough solution."

"Yeah. Sure," Gideon muttered, though she didn't seem pleased.

Harrow was puzzled and more than a little exasperated. She'd thought everything out very carefully and come up with what she thought was a perfect fix. Why couldn't Gideon see that? Why was she frowning down at the paper like it had personally insulted her?

There was absolutely no sense to it.

"Keep to our own sides," Gideon said, "Right. Works for me if it works for you."

"It does."

"Well then, let's shake on it and call it good."

She held out her hand to Harrow. Harrow took it and shook.

Gideon's fingers were warm, clasped in her own, if only for that brief space in time. It was an odd thing to think, that Gideon's fingers were warm. Of course they were. But long after Gideon pulled away, Harrow would still feel their phantom pressure against her skin.

Gideon sighed and stretched.

"Well, I'm gonna get some breakfast. I don't think we'll have a problem there. I wake up at ten at the earliest and, unless you really have changed more than I gave you credit for, you're out of bed and fully dressed by no later than six."

"Old habits," Harrow said.

"Right. Well, you can keep those for yourself. I learned how to sleep in. You should try it some time."

Harrow scoffed. "And let half the day go to waste? I couldn't, even if I wanted to."

"Whatever you say, sunshine," Gideon said with a shrug. "Here's to not seeing you around."

She was about to leave the room when Harrow called her back. Gideon paused in the doorway, wearing the expression of a person who expects at any moment to be pounced on by an angry cat.

"Nav," said Harrow. She summoned all the earnestness left in her wretched, aching heart. "I'm... happy... for you. That you've found at least one parent, even if he is..."

"Old? Cringe? Kinda sad?"

"I was going to say eccentric but those are all apt descriptions, too."

Gideon rubbed her eyes. "Well... thanks. Now quit saying nice things to me. You might hurt yourself."

And with that, she left the room.

Harrow turned back to her notepad, feeling like she'd somehow missed something crucial, not having the slightest idea what it could be.

"You are utterly impossible, Gideon Nav," she muttered to herself as she stared down at her notes. She wasn't seeing the paper at all.

Instead, wide, frightened eyes were hovering before her.

"Promise me, Nonagesimus. You have to swear. With your pinky and all."

Harrow had sworn. With her pinky and all. And the very next day, she'd turned around and broken that oath.

She could not blame Gideon. Not anymore. In many ways it would be easier if she could. But that ship had sailed long ago, leaving Harrow behind on a desolate shore of her own making. Now there was only regret where anger had burned, and regret was cold comfort.

All she had to do, she reminded herself, was avoid her. And she'd been doing that long enough. Surely it couldn't be that difficult.

There would be nothing to it.

Right?

Chapter Text

The infuriating thing about Gideon Nav, in Harrow's opinion, was that even when she kept to her word, remained on her side of the house, left Harrow completely, blessedly alone, she always somehow managed to take up space in every room and every maze-like hall and hidden balcony, and so too in Harrow's brain.

Little traces of her shared existence in the house were everywhere.

A pair of shoes carelessly discarded on a landing.

An old T-shirt crumpled on a sofa.

The briefest glimpse of bright red hair flickering past a window or through a doorway Harrow could never bring herself to cross.

She'd even found a stash of Gideon's filthy magazine's in the library one afternoon, all sporting horrid titles like: Girlworld or For Her Pleasure or, most heinous of all, BOOBS ON Babes: VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE PAIR and WIN A Year's SUBSCRIPTION FREE!

With hands that did not shake or sweat, not even a little, she shoved them back behind the massive history volume where she'd found them and vowed never, ever to think about them again. Or, more crucially, never to think about Gideon thinking about them for any reason ever.

And so it was that Harrow, quite despite herself, began to scour each room she entered for these little, unwelcome talismans, until a day without one left her oddly sore and irritable.

Harrow attempted to distract herself from these new and mildly troubling sensations by exploring and cataloguing the house.

There was quite a lot of house to explore, too.

Even relegated to her side, as Harrow was, there seemed to be an unopened door around every corner, and far more halls and alcoves and oddly shaped nooks than ought to have been possible.

There were countless sitting rooms where no one had sat in what looked to Harrow like at least a decade, judging from the layers of dust coating the furniture covers. Guest rooms that no one had ever slept a single night between the perfectly pressed sheets of the perfectly made beds. Storage rooms stacked with bins filled to the brim with everything from old photographs and cards to sad, wilting party favors and reams of yellowing letters.

Harrow would sometimes spend hours just counting the figurines all lined up in their pretty boxes. Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of them. Their creepy, dead eyes always gazed down at her from high, high above, as if to say: "You don't belong here, Harrowhark. You don't belong anywhere."

To which Harrow would stubbornly continue her endless counting and cataloguing. Partly out of curiosity. It seemed Gideon's father was a great collector of things, of everything, really, and Harrow had always been drawn to relics. Anything dusty and old and half-forgotten in shadowy corners that light never touched. She enjoyed the mystery of it, even if what she uncovered usually turned out to be banal, enjoyed the task of assembling a stranger's life piece by piece, until she was left with the skeleton of a life. But mostly, she did it because it kept her hands occupied and Gideon Nav out of her head, or so she told herself.

True to her word, she drew back the curtains and threw the windows wide each morning, but even the brightest of midmorning sunshine seemed to shrivel, wane, and die as soon as it fell in over the sill. The light never went as far as it should have. It was as if the house gulped it all away, leaving only dim rooms and a deep, unnatural quiet.

But nightfall was a different matter entirely. The house came to life, then. Squeaking and creaking, groaning and settling uneasily in its foundations in the way old buildings are so often wont to do.

Knowing this, however, was no comfort to Harrow.

Every night, she would suddenly startle awake, drenched in sweat, convinced she'd heard the soft shuffle of footsteps on the stairs. The muffled thump, thump of slippered feet pausing just outside her room, waiting. The rattle of the doorknob.

"It's Nav," she would whisper, hands clasped tight in the dark like a prayer, "It's just Nav, pulling a practical joke, being a complete ass to spite me, that's all."

She could never make herself believe it. Not really.

For one thing, sneaky wasn't Gideon Nav's style. At least, not the Gideon Nav that Harrow had known ten years ago. She was always bold and loud and bright. As a child, she was forever bursting into places she had no business in and demanding all Harrow's attention. No, sneaky nighttime stealth attacks to torment Harrow weren't Gideon.

For another thing, three weeks had gone by, and Gideon had steadfastly remained on her side of the house. Harrow hadn't actually expected her to and was almost disappointed when she realized that they hadn't so much as been in the same room since that first morning in the library.

Maybe they really could go a whole year without talking.

But just as Harrow was settling into that strange reality, the house had other plans.

It started with a storm.

It was the first storm of the year, a wild, thunderous storm with pounding rain and wind that shrieked and wailed against the windowpanes.

Harrow hated storms. She hated rain. She hated water and wind and uncontrollable elements.

She did what she usually did during such times.

She hid in the library, far away from any windows, with a lamp and a book.

And then the wind and rain picked up, reaching its furious crescendo. The lamp flickered once, only to sputter out. Harrow flipped it on and off a few desperate times, but nothing happened.

She was left in total darkness in the vast, echoing room, all alone, in the furthest corner from the light switch.

"No matter," she said aloud, "No matter."

She could navigate by feel. Counting the shelves, as she always did. She would find the light switch, turn it on, and everything would be fine. She would be fine.

She moved slowly forward.

The empty old house shivered and quaked, coming to life as it only ever did at night.

With each new sound, Harrow lost track of her count, had to start all over.

How many shelves down was it again?

Twenty? Twenty-five?

And how many had she past already?

Ten? A dozen?

She couldn't be sure in this stupid, all-consuming dark.

There were just so many shelves. Ordinarily, Harrow wouldn't mind, but the weird, ghostly shadows they made all around her every time lightning struck sent shivers down her spine.

Her fingers scrabbled for a landmark. a shelf, a wall, something.

For one horrible moment, they found nothing at all, just clawed at empty, pitch dark air. All she could hear was the driving wind and rain. There was nothing else.

And suddenly she was ten years old again, pitching headfirst through winter-chilled water, all the way to a murky, unknowable bottom, far too weak to try flailing to the surface. She had shut her eyes tight, then. She had accepted her lot. If this was to be her fate, she embraced it, for one moment only. It was a baptism but not like any other. Because she was never meant to come up again. She was a herald, a harbinger, a warning flare for the End Days, a divine omen of her parents' doom, and she should have died in that icy pool where they had dunked her.

Except she didn't.

Just when her lungs were beginning to ache, her hand had grasped on to something solid and sturdy and alive. Arms had snaked around her, whoever it was gave one powerful kick, and she'd broken the surface again.

It had been January, and the air was so cool it stung her cheeks and made snot pool and crust at the tip of her nose.

She had blinked the muck out of her eyes and beheld the bedraggled form of Gideon Nav.

And Harrow couldn't think. Her world was falling apart and coming back to life all at once. All she knew to say, through chattering teeth was: "But you hate swimming."

Eleven-year-old Gideon had shrugged, or maybe just shivered, and said, "Yeah well, I wasn't gonna let you drown to death. Come on." And she'd dragged the barely conscious Harrow out of the freezing water.

The authorities, when they'd eventually come for her parents, also found two shivering girls huddled under a mound of blankets, both of whom refused point blank to answer questions.

Now, in the present, if only just, Harrow stumbled headlong into a big, soft, warm wall and cursed.

The wall cursed back.

Harrow reeled away, prepared to believe all her worst superstitions about the house were true.

"Fucking hell! You're trampling all over my toes!"

"That's not my fault. I can't see any... Wait, Gideon? Why are you here?"

Gideon, as the big soft wall turned out to be, huffed. "I came to tell you the power had gone. Figured you'd have made a nest in here since you weren't in your bedroom."

"You went in my bedroom?"

"Not by choice. Don't flatter yourself. I just thought you'd want to know, is all. I've tried everything but the electricity in this place is shit on a good day so I think it'll be out for a while."

"No, I mean, how do you know where my bedroom is?"

"Um... because I hear you tiptoeing around sometimes. You're like a little goth mouse, do you know that?"

"So you haven't been walking past my door in the middle of the night?"

Gideon was highly offended at the mere suggestion. "What? No. I'm not some kind of creep. Why would anyone do that?"

"That's... that's good."

Harrow slumped in sheer, exhausted relief for a moment against the wall and closed her eyes, not that it made much difference. The wall grunted.

"Ooffh. Are you good? You're not going to pass out, are you?" Gideon actually sounded concerned.

Harrow straightened up, lurching away from her as quickly as she could.

"I'm fine."

"Okay. Sure. And what wonderful weather we're having."

"I mean I'm not going to pass out. Do you have a candle?"

"I have a candle but no fucking light. Ever since Dad quit smoking again, he's gone through the whole house and tossed out every last emergency lighter he owns. We're shit out of luck."

They sank into companionable, dejected silence.

"Harrow," Gideon said after what felt like a long time.

The use of her first name in such an unusually thoughtful tone drew her attention.

"What?"

"I take it you've heard it too, then?"

"Heard what?"

"You know," now Gideon was agitated, "All the noises. The weird ones. At night."

"Don't you dare fuck with me, Nav. I'm already on edge."

"I'm not trying to fuck with you. Look, you know what I'm talking about. I know you do. The creaking and thudding and door rattling and all that shit." She sighed. "I don't know. Sometimes I think there's something majorly fucking wrong with this place."

"I swear to God, Nav. I mean it. If this is some kind of trick, I’ll. “.” Harrow stopped. Something in Gideon's tone struck her as odd, something in its lack of innuendo or any humor at all. There was something uncommonly sincere in that tone that set Harrow shivering all over again. "You've really noticed it, too?"

"Of course I have. I've lived here for five years. Thought it was just me."

They were sitting side by side on the library floor now, backs pressed up against a shelf, just far enough apart so their shoulders wouldn't brush.

"Sometimes I think this whole house is a black hole," Gideon confessed.

"A black hole filled with clutter," Harrow supplied.

"Yeah, well, a hole's gotta be filled with something."

"That is truly vile."

"Just trying to lighten the mood. Seriously though. Ever since I came here... I don't know."

"Go on."

"Sometimes, this place reminds me of..." Gideon trailed off. "Nah. It doesn't make sense. Never mind."

"Go on, Griddle."

"Okay, fine. It reminds me of, you know, being back there. With your parents."

Harrow flinched.

"See! I knew I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm being horrible."

Harrow clasped her hands tight, tapped each finger together exactly three times.

"No, go on. Tell me."

"It's just... I moved in and everything was pretty okay, right? I mean, not the best, not the worst. I thought, cool. Big house. Pretty neat. But then I found this room with all kinds of, I don't know, memorabilia. Stuff like..."

"Like what my parents had. You found my parents' religious iconography in your father's house?"

"Um... yep."

"And you didn't tell me this because...?"

"Because, Harrow, I had the shock of my fucking life, finding you here. And you'd made up a whole bunch of rules just so you wouldn't have to see or talk to me. Besides, I didn't want to bring that whole thing up again. I thought it might make things worse. So yeah, I didn't mention it."

Harrow felt like a million angry bees were swarming beneath her skin. She took a deep breath. It didn't calm her in the least, but she simply had to know. "Tell me the rest of it."

"There's not much more to tell. I went in, saw that stuff, got mega freaked out, and just decided not to think about it. Ever since then I've noticed weird stuff happening from time to time, but I just thought it was because the house is old and falling apart. Until you said you heard it, too."

"How? How does your dad have things that used to belong to my family in his house?"

"I don't know. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything. He collects a lot of statues and figures and trinkets and things. I'm sure he just thought it was more of that. I'm sorry I mentioned it."

Outside, the storm raged on, as fierce as ever. A clap of thunder boomed. The whole house shook.

"Harrow?"

"You and I are going to figure out what's going on," Harrow said, "And what your dad has to do with my family."

"But what about your rules..."

“Oh, forget them."

"What?"

"Those weren't for my benefit, you dolt. They were for yours."

"For mine! How?"

"Yes, yours. Obviously."

"How the fuck was that supposed to be obvious?"

Harrow sighed. "Because I assumed you would be happier never speaking to me again. So, in consideration of your feelings, I came up with our current plan. Which has failed spectacularly, by the way."

"You make absolutely no sense to me."

"I make perfect sense."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Your distracting from the point," Harrow said, "Are you going to help me or not?"

"This is probably not a very good idea," said Gideon, "But fine. Sure. I can, like, carry your research books for you if you want. But I don't know where any of that stuff is anymore. He moved it. It's gone. All I know is that it was here and this house is weird and I'm kinda starting to spook myself so can we talk about literally anything else? Please?"

"Yes. That may be a good idea."

Harrow could actually feel Gideon relax. Perhaps it was because she had somehow scooted closer without realizing it.

"Good. Great. Like what?"

Harrow thought about it. "Boobs on Babes? In the history section? Really, Nav?"

"Hey, some of those ladies are spectacular enough to go down in the history books. Tell me I'm wrong."

Harrow positively refused to dignify that with a response.

She felt Gideon shrug beside her.

"Not my fault you can't appreciate good artistry," she said.

"It's not about the artistry," Harrow retorted. "Those magazines are unrealistic trash."

They passed the rest of the storm like that, sitting next to each other (but not too close), debating the merits of dirty magazines, doing anything but talking about the things that really mattered. Both privately decided this was leagues better than sitting alone, not that either would have admitted it.

Chapter Text

As children, growing up in the austere community founded by Harrow's mother and father, Harrow almost believed she truly did hate Gideon Nav. Maybe she had, once. Or twice, or a million little times throughout their simultaneously dull and tumultuous childhood. But Gideon was also the only other child among the dozen or so decrepit worshippers Harrow's parents were still managing to string along.

Unlike everybody else Harrow had ever known, Gideon was not a follower of her parent’s homegrown death cult.

The story of Gideon's arrival went like this: 

A few nights before Harrow's own birth, a strange woman had knocked at the gate and refused to leave. She must have thought the compound was some sort of sanctuary, or perhaps she was just desperate, delirious with pain. Whatever the case might have been, she had demanded entry and, once she was begrudgingly granted it, took two steps inside before collapsing.

She'd given birth right there, lived long enough to name her daughter, and died.

No, Gideon was not one of the faithful and never had been, something which Harrow both resented and craved in her. She never treated Harrow like The Holy Daughter, never bowed, never asked her to pray for her in hushed reverent tones.

They fought brutally, punching and kicking, pulling hair, hissing and screeching like angry cats. In a strange way, Harrow looked forward to those battles. They were the only moments when she felt like a normal girl. With the adrenaline pumping, all puffed up with fury, she was whole and young and alive at last.

Hating Gideon Nav, for little Harrow, had been a godsend of sorts, a gift. Hate came easy as breathing to Harrowhark.

But loving? Loving Gideon Nav was an unfamiliar burden impossible to bear.

Harrow, the harbinger of her family's ruin, would never, could never allow herself such a frivolous thing, such a dear and dangerous thing.

That was why Harrow, three months after the police had stumbled upon Gideon and Harrow curled up together, teeth chattering under a ragged blanket, waited until Gideon was sleeping to slip out of the bed they shared more nights than not in those days. She padded quietly out into the hall in search of their guardian and demanded to be separated from Gideon at once.

"I just can't stay a second longer with Nav," she'd huffed, "I can't. Not a single minute!"

The authorities were already concerned for both girls' mental health. Harrow, in particular, was not faring well. And so they agreed to place her elsewhere. She left that very night without a word, not even permitting herself to take a final backward glance, lest she lose her nerve.

She told herself it was a noble sacrifice, the kind she'd been brought up to make. And ` she who'd caused all this catastrophe anyway? All she knew was to deny herself, to dole out just punishments for her failures.

Only years later did she realize it wasn't noble at all. She'd fled, an oath-breaker, a coward, all because she couldn't face Gideon, couldn't face herself.

But there was no fleeing now. No tantrum she could throw, no excuse she could make. Even the rules she'd written to manufacture as much distance as she possibly could between them had gone up in smoke, revealed to be the mirages they were.

Something had broken in her during that storm, something irrevocable. Gideon Nav was suddenly everywhere she turned, slouching around, grinning, bursting in on her studies.

And, to her private, eternal shame, Harrow was coming slowly, inevitably undone at the sight of her.

In the early days of their living together, Gideon had felt almost like a phantom. Harrow would catch a glimpse of red hair, of gold eyes gleaming through a window as she passed by, a snatch of song or laughter or, once, a barrage of curses when Gideon had stubbed her toe on a doorstop.

Harrow had all her regular ghosts and Gideon too. Surely, she could live with that. After all, hadn't Gideon been haunting her for years now anyway?

But after the storm, things were different. With their brief attempt to live separately dissolved, Harrow found that Gideon was always seeking her out.

It began that very next day, around dinner time, not that Harrow was keeping track.

"Are you absolutely, positively sure you're not a ghost?"

Harrow nearly jumped out of her skin. She was hunched over a book in the library, deep in study, partly as research for her thesis: an examination on the tactics and potential victim types in high control groups, and partly out of a more personal curiosity. In her studies, she always looked to see if her family's group was mentioned. It rarely was.

Harrow didn't bother looking up.

"Yes, Griddle, I'm sure."

She could feel Gideon leaning on the chair behind her, smell whatever she'd been cooking on her clothes.

"Then how come I've never actually seen you eat real, human food since you've been here? And no, I know what you're going to say. Black coffee and smoothies aren't meals, Harrow."

"Get distracted in here," Harrow replied, still looking down, away from Gideon, though she'd stopped reading now.

"No, you! Really! I never would have thought!"

Harrow sighed and snapped the book shut, half turning to face Gideon.

"What do you want, Nav?"

"Jesus, a girl can't ask another girl to have dinner with her without getting her head bit off?"

"I'm perfectly happy to dine on my own, thank you." The thought of having to share an entire meal with Gideon made Harrow want to bite her own nails off.

She couldn't imagine why Gideon was asking. So far, they hadn't made any headway about the weird connection between her father and Harrow's family. Did she have information to share? Why else would she willingly wish to spend her evening with Harrow?

"Is this about the cult?"

"Nope," said Gideon, "It's about the spaghetti and meatballs I just made. I even toned down the onions and garlic so they wouldn't be too spicy, just for you."

"That's strange," Harrow thought, "No new intelligence to report? Oh, so that's what that good smell was." Harrow liked spaghetti more than most foods, but only with meatballs and only if there weren’t too many spices in the sauce.

"Is this about the noise at night?"

"Wait, how do you know about that!" Gideon looked horrified. "What the fuck, Harrow!"

"You know, the creaking and the footsteps," Harrow clarified quickly. Oh, dear lord, she was going to have to unpack that later. Or not. Probably better to not. Ever.

Gideon slumped in relief. "Oh yeah, those. Right. Um, no. No new info to add about that, either. It's only been one night."

"Yes, but I'm eager to get a move on, get to the bottom of things."

"Apparently," Gideon muttered.

Harrow decided it was safer to pretend she hadn't heard.

"Then what do you want?"

Gideon clapped a hand to her chest, gasped. "Oh, Harrow, I thought you'd never ask. Spaghetti. With you. Pronto! I'm starving!"

Harrow felt like she was living in a dream, though whether it was a daydream or a nightmare she couldn't quite tell. "But I don't understand. Why? If neither of us have any new leads to…"

Gideon cut her off with a deep sigh and a roll of her eyes. "Oh my God! I give up. Never mind."

Then, she stomped out of the room, calling over her shoulder, "Dinner will be in the fridge if you decide to "dine" tonight," and left Harrow sitting, utterly baffled, in the waning sunset-orange glow spilling through the windows of the library, alone.

Harrow assumed that would be the end of it but, as it turned out, it was merely the first of a week's worth of attempts. Harrow (politely, she thought) declined each and every one of Gideon's odd dinner invitations. She just couldn't fathom what on Earth they would have to talk about. The only thing that had broken the barrier between them at all was the house itself and since the storm, the house had been eerily quiet. What more could Nav possibly want?

They fell into a pattern that neither one of them fully understood. Every day, at exactly six o'clock, Gideon would come marching in, sometimes covered in flour, sometimes in grease, sometimes with the sweet aroma of freshly chopped fruit announcing her presence and ask Harrow to take dinner with her. Every day Harrow would decline. Gideon would sigh, roll her eyes, and walk away, though her mood changed from evening to evening. Some nights she was playful, joking. She seemed to be aware of something that Harrow couldn't quite put her finger on, some game they were playing. But other nights her sighs seemed more heartfelt, her careless attitude more of a mask. Her shoulders would slump, and she would walk slowly out of the room, as if waiting, hoping to be called back.

On the eighth night after the storm, Harrow was rudely awoken by what she assumed had to be Gideon. A sound was flooding into her room through the crack under her door, as if the noise were concentrating there. It was a soft, keening sound, like a song but wordless, tuneless. Something about the noise recalled to Harrowhark the old, off-key hymns of her youth, the voice cracks, the uneven rise and fall.

"Gideon?" she said into the shadows, already knowing that it was not her. "Nav?"

No answer came. There was only the low moan of the song, the hymn, as Harrow thought of it.

***

"Stand, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, before the pool of winter's water."

Ten-year-old Harrow stood on legs that would not allow themselves to shake, with a face that wouldn't allow itself to crumple in fear, before her mother and father, before the whole, threadbare congregation.

"Do you know your purpose?" said her father. All eyes were on her face. They all knew what she was going to say. She had been coached since early childhood for this moment. From the time of conception, she had been destined for it. So why was she afraid?

"Yes."

"And what, Holy Daughter, is that?"

"To heal the depravity of this world and bring about the new. To suffer and in suffering, embrace joy. To die and in dying, live. Let me be-be consumed by Winter’s Water, let the chill freeze the sins from my blood. I make…" Harrow's lip trembled out of her control. She bit it. Hard. The Sacrifice must not cry, must not show any unwillingness, else their oath would be void. "I make this sacrifice willingly to free Our People and to free myself."

Harrow's parents' gazes never flickered, never changed at all. One by one, each cultist smiled, a grotesque, euphoric expression that made Harrow's stomach churn. But why shouldn't they smile? This was the culmination of their life's work.

: We see your sacrifice, Harrowhark,” chorused the cultists.

“You may proceed,” said Harrow’s mother. It was the last thing Harrow ever heard her say.

Harrow took a determinedly steady step forward, toward the dark and frosty pool.

Taking a cold, sharp breath, one of her last, she knew, she readied herself for the plunge.

Behind her, the cultists, the only family she had ever known, passed around a single wine glass. They toasted her, each in their turn, and when all but her father had sipped, Harrow bent her knees and jumped.

The last she heard of her father’s voice before he too sipped from the communion cup was an old hymn her parents had once sang to her in her cradle, and then all she knew was the terror of the shredding, breath-taking cold.

Back in Canaan House, the tuneless singing stopped.

Harrow tried to go back to sleep, but it was a waste of effort. She tossed and turned the rest of the night, heaped mounds of blankets over herself, but no matter what she did, all she could feel was cold.

The following evening, at six o’clock, Gideon did not come to coax her to dinner. Harrow paced around the library like a caged animal for an hour before admitting to herself that Gideon was not going to turn up.

“Oh, this is so stupid!” she said to a spider spinning a silky web in a back corner.

Forty-five minutes later, Harrow marched up the stairs to Gideon’s bedroom door. She rapped three times sharp, stood back, and waited.

After a moment, Gideon opened up, bleary-eyed, short red hair mussed, parts sticking straight up from sleep. She had obviously just pulled on some clothes. They were all rumpled and her shirt was on backwards and inside out. Harrow hadn’t been this glad to see anyone in ten years, to the day, although she had no way of knowing that.

“How can I help you, your Ghostliness?”

Harrow adjusted the pizza box in her arms and took a step inside Gideon’s room. “There are things you should know. But dinner first? I ordered cheese in.”

Harrow fully expected Gideon to bar the way. Instead, she moved aside, allowing Harrow into her space.

“Well, finally,” she said, and took the box from Harrow’s arms to set it on the table.

Chapter Text

“So, correct me if I get this wrong, but you wake up. Dead of night. You hear the hymn your dad sang to you the day he died. You think: "Hmm, that's odd." Then, you roll over and conk the fuck out again, is that right?"

Gideon was sprawled out like a star fish on her bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank look of astonishment on her face, her pizza slack in her hand with one big bite taken out.

"That is correct," said Harrow.

"You're either mega brave or you have a death wish. Why the ever-living fuck didn't you tell me? You could have come and found me, for Christ's sake."

"I thought it wouldn't be relevant to you, not until morning, at least."

Gideon rubbed her forehead in frustration, accidentally smearing the tiniest fraction of pizza sauce above her right brow. "Not relevant! Not relevant! If there's some creepy person or spirit or cultist in my house, I'd say it's pretty damn relevant to me, yeah! Fuck, Harrow!"

"I didn't want to wake you."

"That, and" she thought, glancing around the room, whose walls were lined with comics posters and intimate depictions of the female form, "I would rather not be in this room."

"Why, afraid you'll catch Gideon germs or something. God, just when I think you're finally over the whole hating my guts thing."

She sighed and took a bite of pizza. Harrow couldn't take her eyes off the smear of sauce above her eye.

"Hating you thing? What hating you thing are you referring to?"

"Come off it. The thing where you hate me for some reason, obviously."

Harrow, who hadn't touched her pizza, clenched a napkin in her fist, the napkin she had to resist the urge to use to dab at Gideon's face.

This was not what Harrow wanted. Somehow, the conversation had derailed already, as it always did. All Harrow had wanted was dinner and perhaps to see the inside of Gideon's room at last… wait, no she didn't. She most certainly did not want that. She just needed to fill her in on the hymn, that was all. It was necessary information for the good of the house. Typical roommate behavior. Nothing more.

“Why are you so very certain I hate you?”

Gideon let out a long, slow breath. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you've been avoiding me all week, even after you agreed we didn’t have to do that anymore. Maybe because when we were ten and eleven, you walked out on me. You promised, Harrow. You swore to me you wouldn't and then you ditched me like extra luggage weighing you down, left me with a bunch of strangers, and went who fucking knows where. Maybe that's why. You know, it's funny…"

"What?" Harrow felt like all her bones had suddenly turned to glass and Gideon was a mallet. Or perhaps, she realized with a sharp, stabbing throb in her stomach, it was she, Harrow, who had been the mallet all along. "What's funny?"

Gideon finished off her pizza before answering. Harrow was left to sit" in uncomfortable silence, trying not to stare at the posters or at Gideon's face, or at anything at all, for that matter.

"All I ever wanted was for you to not leave me alone and that's all you ever seem to do. I don't get you. It's like we take one step forward and one gigantic leap back."

Harrow couldn’t move, speak, or even think for a moment. Before, she might have come back with a cutting retort, an insult. That would have been expected, familiar, safe. But she was sitting on the edge of Gideon’s bed in Gideon’s room living in Gideon’s house. They weren’t in Harrow’s parents’ compound anymore and they weren’t children. The rules, along with their positions in life, had shifted. It was time for Harrow to adapt.

“You’re right.”

Gideon nearly dropped her second slice of pizza. “What?”

Harrow finally met her eye, straight on, unwavering. “You’re right.”

Gideon opened her mouth, but Harrow waved her words away with her napkin. Suddenly, without any warning or input from her brain, Harrow leaned forward, so close she could feel Gideon’s warm breath brush against the little hairs on her head and dabbed at the smudge of sauce above Gideon’s eye.

“You’re right. I have left you alone.”

Gideon’s mouth, inches from Harrow’s own, opened and closed, gaping like a fish on a hook. She seemed unable to form proper words, however, because all that came out was a breathy, “Huh?”

Harrow did not back away. Maybe this was the real reason she had come, what she had always intended to say but never managed to.

“You’re right that I left you all alone. I broke that promise and it has been something I have regretted endlessly since. But you’re wrong, too. I don’t hate you, Gideon. I don’t think I ever truly did.”

“Then why…?” Gideon’s voice was uncharacteristically wispy, but it was still loud in Harrow’s ears.

The accusation was plain, raw in Gideon’s gold, shimmering eyes: Then why? Why did you leave? Why do you shove me aside?"

"I was doing you a favor," Harrow said. She really couldn't see why Gideon didn't understand. It was so blindingly obvious to Harrow.

"By abandoning me? Some favor, Harrow."

"By shielding you from me," Harrow snapped back, losing patience. "Do you know why I wanted this house to begin with?"

Gideon shrugged. "I dunno. You mentioned something about horrible roommates."

Harrow sighed, mesmerized by the way her breath stirred the short, red hairs framing Gideon's cheekbones. "Yes, well, that was one reason. There was this one girl who kept calling me Harry."

Gideon wrinkled her nose. "Ew. Gross."

"Yes. She was vile. But, truthfully," Harrow took a steadying breath and continued. "Truthfully, Griddle, I never wanted to live with anyone. I took this house because it was as far away from people as I could hope to get."

"Anti-social much?"

"It's better that way."

"For you or for the rest of us?"  There was a joking tone to Gideon's voice that took the sting out of the words, but Harrow didn't, couldn't smile.

"For everyone. Griddle, don't you realize, I am a bad omen, a ticking time bomb. I-I…" her voice flailed for strength and finally gave up, cracked, broke into a thousand shaky pieces. "I led my people to destruction. I was the key to their deaths. It was all-all my fault. Who's to say I won't do it again? I couldn't forgive myself if you met the same…"

Gideon whisked the dirty napkin out of Harrow’s hands and put her hand on Harrow’s upper back. Harrow wanted to flinch, would have, if it had been anyone else, but instead kept still as a statue, breathless, waiting, while Gideon took in what she just said, seeming to mull it over. She came back to herself in an instant.

“People aren’t omens, Harrow, good or bad. They’re just people. If anything, it’s your parents you have to blame for what happened, not yourself. They were going to kill you as part of some creepy, insane ritual, for fuck’s sake. You were fucking ten. You and I didn’t signal anything. The only thing we’re guilty of is having crazy fuckups for parents. Harrow,” Gideon put a hand on Harrow’s chin, turning her face so that Harrow couldn’t avoid her gaze, “It wasn’t your fault. You’re not a harbinger of anything except black clothing and books, maybe."

Harrow shook her head. "You still don't understand. From the moment I was created, that was my whole world. To-to end up like my parents. That was it. I always knew why they made me. And now…" she took a breath. She would not cry, not here. "I'm still here. But I have no purpose."

Gideon rubbed her back, just a little, before finally removing her hand. She shrugged. "Your purpose is to live, Harrow. That's it. That's all anyone ever has to do. Look at me. All I do all day is lay around but I'm here."

"That's not all you do. You cook, you fix the power when it goes out, you-you keep this whole place functioning. I certainly couldn't do that."

"Bullshit."

"No, really."

Gideon shook her head and shoved the pizza box at Harrow.

"Here, eat. Else I really will start thinking you're a spirit come to haunt me."

Harrow took a dainty little nibble. The pizza had gone cold, but that was alright. Harrow didn't especially enjoy warm foods anyway.

They sat in companionable silence, slowly making their way through the small pizza box laid open on Gideon's nightstand.

"Harrow."

"Hmm?"

"You said you thought you were doing me a favor, you know, by ignoring me."

"Yeah."

"Can you do me a real favor this time?"

Harrow nodded, preparing for Gideon to tell her to get out of her room, that she had lingered too long. Harrow didn't know if that would be a disappointment or a relief. The longer she spent in Gideon's space, the more uneasy, confused, and out of sorts she felt. The place where Gideon's warm fingers had brushed against her cheek, her chin, her back tingled, pin and needles with phantom pressure. She chewed mindlessly, trying and failing helplessly to distract her from the feeling.

"If you hear anything weird, I don't care how late it is oh what I'm doing, come and find me. I don't want to be alone if there's something fucked up going on."

Was that all? Harrow was expecting something difficult, some impossible oath.

"Done," she said and held out her hand.

"Are you serious?" Gideon said, laughing, and took it.

Harrow shook firmly, expecting Gideon to release her grip at once, but she held on for ten, fifteen seconds too long, squeezed lightly, made Harrow's heart pound and flutter, before, casual as anything, releasing it.

Later, alone, Harrow tossed and turned in her bed. Her head was reeling. Her stomach felt strange, lighter, as if she had been clenching it this whole time and only now could she relax. Gideon's face, every detail immaculately photographically etched into each crinkle of her brain, hovered before her closed eyes, smiling, laughing, eyes almost soft as they looked at her.

There was an ache somewhere deep within her, an ache in her chest to match the ache between her legs, deep and throbbing and needy. She twisted in her sheets in the dark, in the emptiness, breath catching on silent, stale air, catching at nothing, at every creak of the floorboards, every whisper in the pipes, every distant sound drifting to her from Gideon's room across the house. And though the house did not sing to her that night, Harrow got no rest at all.

Chapter Text

The house stayed stubbornly silent for a week or more, till autumn was nearly spent and the days were dim and short and perpetually shrouded in grey, clinging mist.

Harrow kept her promise, however, and stopped avoiding Gideon, though it wasn’t easy. Being near her made Harrow feel antsy, unnaturally bare.

Gideon had taken to turning up in the library each morning with a breakfast tray loaded down with heaping plates of unseasoned eggs and toast, a mug of tea more milk than not for herself, and a cup of strong brewed black coffee for Harrow. Harrow never asked for this, and Gideon never said a word about it, but every morning, Harrow could set the clock by Gideon's arrival. She would breeze in, greet Harrow with a bright, "Good morning, sweetling," or some other absurd pet name, and plunk the tray down on the desk Harrow had already cleared for her. Sharing their meals together became just something they did. And if Gideon noticed Harrow positively squirming in her seat, Gideon blessedly never let on.

Harrow was overwhelmingly grateful. Her night of impropriety as she referred to it when she permitted herself to reflect on it, which was more often than she knew she ought, was ill advised and probably just a result of her silly, fleshy, human body getting its signals all flustered from emotional strain. That was all.

The thing was…

Well, the thing was it kept happening.

Once, she bumped into Gideon in the hallway. A coat rack had fallen the day before and Gideon had been called upon to fix it. Harrow stumbled into her shoulder as she was mindlessly trudging toward the kitchen for a glass of water, just as Gideon was lifting the overly ornate antique. Harrow watched her muscly arms stretch and flex, watched her lips part in a greeting she only half heard, watched her heave the ugly old thing back into place with breath-taking ease, and promptly forgot about the water.

In the shower that evening, scrubbing her skin for the third time vigorously with a washcloth, that desperate ache came creeping back up again, that insistent tug, that buzz, that incessant hum that compelled her to act or burst, evaporate into steam.

She dropped the cloth with a sad, wet plop, and reached for herself.

After, legs weak and trembling, she leant against the steamy glass door of the shower, her whole body still tingling with aftershocks, and wondered what was happening to her. Harrow was the sort of person to keep tight control over herself, her emotions as well as her body. This new, unquenchable irregularity worried her. How many times would she have to make herself disappear from Gideon's view, scurrying away on shaky legs and her insides wrenching with want, only to emerge, hours later, feeling like the mark of Kane was pressed, hot and damning, into the center of her flushed forehead? How many times would she feel that rarely acted upon urge in Gideon's presence before she could stamp it out, be free of it? She longed to put these ridiculous fantasies aside, get back to safer things.

But the house never let her feel safe for long.

If she was not burning scarlet inside at the sight of Gideon Nav, she was stumbling on something that made her stomach turn.

Distractible as she had become these days, Harrow still maintained her daily routine, clung to it. It gave her days structure, made her feel useful, took her mind off Gideon.

After breakfast, Harrow traipsed around each wing of the house, dusting, pulling back curtains and flinging open windows, and keeping an eye out for any of her family's holy objects.

She found nothing. Or, rather, she found far too much to categorize as quickly as she'd hoped. Gideon’s father really did have an obsession with religious and historical artifacts and absolutely no sense for what was valuable and what was not. Priceless statues sat collecting cobwebs beside cardboard boxes of dried Christmas wreaths and broken ornaments.

Harrow took it upon herself to find homes for everything of value, to create some order in the chaos. She worked on one room per week.

Sometimes, at dinner, which she and Gideon also shared in a small side room by the kitchen which felt cozier than the big, echoing dining room with its long, lonely table, Gideon would ask Harrow if she'd found anything good.

Mostly, Harrow had nothing to report, nothing that Gideon would recognize anyway.

"I found a Shali figurine today. I don't know how he got his hands on that. Good God, those are expensive, extremely rare."

"What's that?"

"The Shali was the spiritual icon of the Moonbeam Children, a religious group formed a few decades back. They sit the figurines at the dinner table with them, take them to the bank when making any financial decisions, hide them in suitcases when traveling, that sort of thing. Or, well, they used to."

"What happened to them?”

Harrow sighed, shrugged. "One day, their leader said Shali was calling them home. So, they went."

"Oh. Shit."

"Yes. Oh shit, indeed."

Harrow noticed that most of the relics she came across were from groups whose members either disbanded or died. She did not mention this to Gideon, though her unease, her suspicion, was growing daily. She told herself she was just gathering evidence, just forming a solid theory, before going to Gideon with her conclusions. But, in truth, she was selfish. Selfish and hungry for these good days to keep on as they were going. And, in her heart of hearts, she wondered who Gideon would side with, given she had to make that choice, the father who had been in her life for the past few years, or Harrow, who had not.

The worst discovery of all turned up while Harrow was airing out an upstairs loft.

She'd done her usual cleaning, dusted, swept, stripped then washed then remade the bed. It was when she was draping the bed skirt over the frame that she saw it, the series of dusty boxes crammed back against a far wall.

"Great," she thought, "More useless rubbish I'll have to sort or toss out."

Sighing, she finished her task then yanked the boxes from their hiding place and began to sift through them.

It was trash, mostly. Old ticket stubs and photographs of people she didn't recognize and wrappers, a million little paper tokens.

But then, she flipped over a down-facing photograph and her stomach dropped out of the bottoms of her feet. The picture slipped out of her hands, not that she noticed. She lurched back, stared at the low, sloping ceiling. All she could think was "What the fuck." And so she said, aloud, to no one at all, "What the fuck."

Harrow's blood ran cold, though sweat was already gathering at her temples. She scooped up the photograph and peered down at it, hoping she'd somehow not seen what she thought she had.

But no. There it was. Plain the last glimpses of evening light streaming in through the window. It was one of those rare clear, cloudless late October evenings when the air is cold but crisp. It was not the sort of day Harrow would have thought to stumble on something like this.

The picture was faded, worn, bent at the edges from age. But the people in the photograph were still very much visible. There, in the middle, was John, Gideon's father, and, on either side, were Harrow's own parents. It was the first photo she'd seen of them since they'd died. All their faces looked so young, so unburdened. Even their clothes, all three wore matching black suits, were new, not a wrinkle to be seen, a far departure from the ragged things they'd had all Harrow's childhood. There was an ease, a familiarity, with which John and Harrow's parents held themselves around one another. Even in a voiceless image, John was half turned toward Harrow's father, laughing, as if he'd just said something amusing. Harrow wasn't sure her father knew the meaning of the word before now.

"What. The. Fuck?"

She set the picture carefully aside and dug feverishly through the rest of the box, looking for any more telltale signs of her parents in his stranger's house, but she was disappointed. The remainder of the box was lined with the debris of decades. There was nothing left for Harrow to unearth. Or so it seemed.

She was just coming to the bottom, thinking that at least she'd have something to show Gideon that night at dinner, when her hand fell upon a smooth, wooden box.

"Hmm. A box within a box. More movie tickets? Old Valentine's, maybe?"

Harrow opened the box, looked down, and began to scream.

"GIDEON! GIDEON!"

There was a roar in her ears, the sound of rushing water. The room spun and spun like a toy top around her.

"GIDEON!" The name ripped out of her, a strangling, hysterical screech.

It was the only word she knew, that only thing that felt real.

The box made a loud, ringing snap sound as Harrow slammed it shut. She couldn't look. She wouldn't. Not ever again.

She was about to scream again when she heard footsteps thundering down the hall, but by then, her vision was swimming. The room spun faster still. Harrow, without deciding to do so, curled herself into a whimpering ball in the corner, as far away from the box as she could get.

Distantly, through a thick mental fog, Harrow heard Gideon's voice, light, joking. "What's the matter? Can't stand to be without me for another fifteen minutes? Harrow. Harrow? What's happened to you? Harrow?"

Then, Gideon was crouching beside her, pulling at her shoulder, shaking it.

Harrow could barely speak. Her teeth were chattering so hard she nearly bit right through her tongue. She felt as though her entire body had suddenly been turned to stone. Or, more accurately, to ice.

"Just-just look. There. “Over there," Harrow said, through gritted teeth.

"Huh?" In Gideon's confusion, she almost slipped on the old photograph, right into the wooden box.

"It's just his old junk. I know it's kind of weird, but he wouldn't listen when I said he has a hoarding… oh, it doesn't matter. What's this, anyway?"

Gideon opened the box. Although Harrow wasn't looking, she heard the hinges creak, heard Gideon's sharp intake of breath.

"Holy shit."

"It's the wineglass, Gideon," Harrow said.

"The same one they drank out of that day?"

"The very one. It's-it's got the same symbols around the base, and it's chipped at the top, see?"

"I see. I see it. Holy shit."

"It chipped when my father dropped it. Just before I jumped in that pool. It would be impossible to duplicate that glass."

"But why does my dad have this? I mean, shouldn't it be in, I don't know, a fucking, fucking evidence locker somewhere?" A note of hysteria was rising in Gideon's voice. They were both teetering on the edge of separate and magnificently catastrophic breakdowns.

"You tell me."

"You don't think I would if I knew?" Gideon waved the photo around wildly. "What is this? They fucking knew each other. How? Why's he got all this shit tucked away? Who the fuck even is he?"

Of course, Harrow had no answer to Gideon's questions. All she could do was huddle in her ball and shut her eyes as tight as she could.

She saw the glass being passed around the ragged little circle of cultists, of family. She'd known, at the time, that there was poison in the wine, of course. Her parents had carefully gone over every detail of the ceremony the night before. But, when the first person's knees gave way beneath them, when they groaned and swayed and finally slumped to the hard-packed, frozen Earth, Harrow realized that for as much talk as her family did of death, ten-year-old Harrow had never seen someone breathe their last before, and she was utterly unprepared. The whole, grotesque scene played out like a bad theatre production in her mind, over and over, with her in the center of it all, standing alone.

"Harrow, come on! Snap out of it! We've got to think and that's your job."

But Harrow couldn't. All her brain was in a whirlpool in the winter cold and sinking ever downward.

Outside, a cloud passed over the setting sun. The weather shifted. Night was bringing with it an oncoming storm.

"We have to get some answers," Gideon was saying, "This is too much."

Harrow agreed, but all she could focus on was that unobtrusive box that held the instrument of her parents' deaths neatly inside.

"Fuck it, cruise or not, I'm calling him," Gideon said.

She threw herself down beside Harrow and it yanked her phone out of her front pocket.

She called and called. The phone beeped and beeped. She texted. Her messages went undelivered. Harrow could guess why. She had a strange notion that the house or John or her parents' restless spirits did not want them to reach anyone, though she shook it off and vowed internally never to tell Gideon her paranoid superstitions.

Finally, Gideon reached his voicemail.

"Hello fellow kids, I’m probably having the time of my life right now, but I'll get" back to you as soon as I get my land legs back. Alrighty, talk soon."

Gideon tossed her phone aside. "Useless! Of course. Dammit."

Harrow made some noncommittal grunt of agreement, but truthfully, she was numb. She had long since peered out from her shapeless mass on the floor to stare at the blank little box and wonder with increasing despair and anger how the wineglass got there.

Gideon saw her staring and suddenly jumped to attention. She reached out a hand for Harrow, lifted her to her shaky feet as easily as she'd lifted that coat rack. She attempted to lead Harrow out of the room, but Harrow was rooted to the spot.

"Come on," Gideon instructed, her voice quiet, firm, knowing. "I don't think it's good for you to be here with it. We can look around more tomorrow."

Harrow took one last glance back at the box and the photograph, laying innocently on the unmade bed where Gideon set them, and allowed herself to be pulled away, feeling like she was betraying her parents once again.

Gideon started down the hall toward Harrow's side of the house, arm steady around her shoulders. Harrow's limbs were heavy, sluggish. Without Gideon's support, she probably would have stayed staring at that horrible picture all night, unmoving.

Just as they reached Harrow's door, Harrow finally came to herself.

"Gideon."

"Yes?"

Words were difficult. Her mouth felt as though she'd been drinking cups of sand. And, anyway, she'd always seemed to muddle things up with Gideon at the best of times.

Luckily, Gideon took Harrow's moment of silence as an opportunity to cut in.

"Listen, Harrow… something's really off here. I don't have a clue what it is or why, but I've felt it for a while and even more than usual now. I don't think it's a good idea for us to split up tonight."

Harrow's heart was pounding. She was pretty certain she wanted to throw up. Or cry. It was difficult to tell which.

"I agree," she said.

Gideon took an involuntary step back, stunned. "Wait what? You do?"

"Yes. I agree. I was, well, I was thinking along the same lines, if you must know."

"Oh." Gideon blinked, looked around like she expected someone to jump out and announce this had all been a really terrible joke, but it was time to pack it all in and go home. "Really?"

"Yes." The next bit was probably the most difficult thing Harrow had ever said. "Truthfully, I would rather not be alone."

Gideon's shoulders slumped in relief. Her face seemed to open up, to lighten. "Oh, thank fucking Christ. Neither do I."

Awkwardly, with many painful "You firsts," and "No reallies," both feeling delicate as baby birds, they stepped into Harrow's spartan bedroom.

Later, in the dark, the house burst into life all about them once more. Floorboards squeaked. Windows rattled. Whispers carried too far, but neither one of them could even pretend to sleep.

Sharing a bed with your ex-childhood frenemy/current housemate, as it turned out, was far less uncomfortable when both of you were scared out of your heads. In fact, it came back to them quite naturally. Harrow was tucked snugly under Gideon's arm, Gideon's chin resting atop her head. When Gideon spoke, Harrow could feel the vibrations of her throat in her skull.

"You know, Harrow, I wondered for years why, out of all the communities I ended up being taken in by, it just happened to be yours," she said.

"Fate? Destiny? Rotten luck?" Harrow supplied.

"That's what I thought. I mean, had to be rotten luck, obviously."

They both laughed a little, shakily, tentative.

"We weren't the most welcoming, were we?"

"I'd say the absolute least in the whole world. Lucky me!"

"Yes. But you're leading up to something. I can tell. What is it? You said you used to wonder?"

Gideon sighed. Her breath ruffled through Harrow's short hair.

"I think I know now. I think it was no accident my mother walked into your compound. I think…"

"She did it on purpose. Or she was sent to my parents. By your father, perhaps?"

"Yeah, exactly. I mean, who else would have known where your compound was? It's not as though you were advertising on billboards, was it? You were hidden away, far back from the road, middle of nowhere. I alw thought what were the chances of anyone just stumbling on the place. Pretty fucking slim."

They were quiet for a long time. Harrow thought she heard voices in the wind, tried to ignore them.

"Well, Nav, I'm glad we agree on that. Now we just have to work out why."

But try as they might, neither of them could figure it out. Eventually Harrow's eyes started stinging. She could no longer force them open. And so, unwillingly, with that horrid wineglass dancing behind her eyelids, she drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Her only comfort was that she wasn't alone.

Chapter Text

Harrow woke the next morning to the pitter patter of rain against the windows, aware that she was enveloped in a warm, soft, heavy something. For a moment, still dazed from sleep, she thought her blanket had been swapped out in the night, replaced with one of those weighted ones.

"It's nice," she thought, snuggling deeper into it, determinedly, like a cat attempting to soak up every bit of residual heat.

Her new blanket grunted, snored, and mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep.

"Of course," Harrow thought, "It's Gideon."

Strangely, she was not disappointed. Nor did she feel particularly inclined to move away. In fact, it was an active struggle to not sink right back into Gideon’s chest, press herself against her body, pull her arm all the way around her, so that Gideon's hand would rest just there, over Harrow's racing heart. But of course, that would be crossing a line Harrow knew could never be crossed. After all, they could only ever end in disaster.

Besides, Gideon would never let her live it down, if she knew how strongly the helpless want was coursing through Harrow's wretched veins. The humiliation of the rejection alone would be more than Harrow could stand.

So, ignoring the pulse between her legs as best as she could, she huddled into herself, away from Gideon as much as the bed and Gideon's sprawling limbs would allow, and tried to calm her mind.

Not that it did any good.

Instead of fixating on the girl still fast asleep beside her, all Harrow could think about was that picture, the wineglass, the day her parents died. Terrifying loops. She scoured her scattered memory for any Information she might have passed over, details that never seemed important before. She came up empty. It was maddening. Harrow couldn't stand to think about it for long.

She wished for a distraction, any distraction, and found herself circling, inevitably, to Gideon.

Finally, the war between Harrow's despair and desire overcame her. She could no longer lie still.

She ought to get up and make them breakfast. That would keep her mind (and her hands) occupied.

Quietly, she slipped from beneath Gideon's outstretched body and sat up on the edge of the bed. No sooner than her feet touched the cold, wood floor than an arm reached out for her.

"Where're you going? I'm cold." Gideon's words were somewhat muffled by the pillow, but still distinct enough to be recognizable.

"Breakfast," Harrow said, "You always make it. It's my turn."

"Aaawww miss you."

Harrow was grateful Gideon's head was turned away. She couldn't see the hot blotches of red on her cheeks.

"Go back to sleep, Griddle," she said briskly. Then, softening her tone, she added. "I won't be long."

By the time Harrow had slid into her slippers, Gideon was already snoring again, though one arm was still dangling off the bed. Harrow took it, placed it well onto the mattress, adjusting the blanket over it before she tiptoed out of the room.

Gideon had to be dreaming about someone else, a girl from her magazines perhaps. That had to be it. Harrow saw no other explanation for her odd behavior.

"It doesn't matter," she told herself as she boiled the water for Gideon's tea, "It's not like you'll ever have to talk about it."

* * *

"Alright, we need to make a plan of action," said Harrow, gulping down the last of her coffee.

She and Gideon were polishing off their toast, sitting on the edge of Harrow's bed. Gideon's hair was sticking out all over. She kept yawning and stretching, rubbing her eyes, but devoured Harrow's toast and even complemented the truly ludicrous amount of sugar Harrow had dumped in her tea.

"Okay," said Gideon, "But before we do that… how are you holding up? Yesterday was”

"Terrible?"

Gideon nodded.

Harrow set her expression. "I'm fine."

Gideon raised her eyebrows. "Right."

"I'm fine, Nav."

"Whatever you say. I was just checking."

Harrow sighed, met Gideon's eyes. "Well… thank you."

"Ugh, don't do that!"

"Do what?"

"Look so, I don't know, sappy. It's not like you. I'm not sure what to do with it."

Harrow huffed. If Gideon only knew. "And how would you know? I'm not a monster, you know. I am perfectly capable of-of tender emotions and sincerity when it is called for. And it is. I do mean it," she added.

Gideon smiled, a little, twinkling thing. If Harrow didn't know better, she would have said it was almost bashful. "Ah, well, it was the least I could do. I really am sorry you had to stumble on that, Harrow. IT'S really fucked up, keeping something like that in your loft."

"I agree. The question is why, though. Tell me, what do you know about your father?"

Gideon shrugged. "Not much, actually."

"You didn't bother researching him before you showed up at his door?"

Gideon looked affronted "No. Of course not."

Harrow was flabbergasted. "How could you not?"

"I was just happy to have someone, okay? Some family."

"Alright, alright. So, you don't know anything?"

"I know that he's filthy rich. Not sure what he does though. I know he has a woefully pathetic love life even more pathetic than mine, which is really saying something. I know he's always talking about different people he used to know "back in the day." And you and I both know about the creepy cult shit he collects. That's about it. Oh, and I also know that he's always wanted a daughter, or so he says."

"Did he ever say why?"

"No. Just that he always wanted one. Maybe I'm just that special."

"Maybe," Harrow said, though by now she was doubting whether Gideon father was capable of viewing people through that lens. Her own parents certainly weren't.

A horrible suspicion, one Harrow had tried to quell for days now, was beginning to grow inside her. Her whole body flooded with dread.

"Gideon, does your father have an office?"

"Sure."

"We'll start our search there. Will you take me to it?"

"Yes, if you tell me what we're searching for."

"Connections," harrow said. She set her coffee cup down on the tray and stood. "Let's go."

As it turned out, John's office was right off the library.

"A warning, before we go in," Gideon said, putting a hand on Harrow to stop her from turning the lock. "I've never actually been in here. I'm not sure what we'll find."

"That makes two of us," said Harrow. Then, she pushed open the door.

It didn't budge.

She twisted the handle back and forth, pushed harder.

Nothing.

"Well shit! We're locked out," said Gideon.

"Yes, at the moment," said Harrow.

She started walking off toward the kitchen. Gideon followed, calling after her.

"I didn't even know he locked that door? Did you see a key around or something? Hey, what's that for?"

Harrow had reached the kitchen, flung open the silverware drawer, and took out a butterknife.

"To unlock the door," Harrow said, hurrying back to John's office.

Carefully, she slid the knife in between the door and the frame, sliding it down until she hit" the bolt. She struggled with it for a moment. Gideon watched on, trying to hold back a grin.

At last, Harrow gave one more push and heaved the door open.

Gideon actually applauded "How did you know how to do that?"

"A girl needs to know how to unlock doors," Harrow said, flushed with success and the admiring look on Gideon's face. She wanted to bask in it. "In we go."

In many ways, the office was like any other. There was a sturdy wooden desk in a corner, walls lined with shelves on the other, a yoga ball where a rolling office chair would usually be. There was even an electric kettle on one side of the table and a tin of biscuits. The window, shuttered now, was wide and Harrow guessed that, in better weather, the view would be expansive and spectacular, looking straight out into the garden.

There were only two odd things about the room. The first was that, apart from the kettle, the desk was completely bare. There wasn't even a computer. Nothing but gleaming, polished wood and a single novelty mug with a skull and crossbones on it.

The second odd thing was that the shelves were not lined with books or file folders like in most offices. Instead, they were filled, each and every one of them, with photographs and strange trinkets.

Gideon stood back, gazing up and down the rows of seemingly unrelated objects, here and there interspersed with pictures, all containing John with groups of people.

"Wow, never knew Dad was so social," she said. "Got a lot of friends, hasn't he?"

Harrow paced forward, gazing at one picture in particular. "Yes, and he doesn't seem the sort of man to have many of those. I wonder…"

Harrow's eye was caught by a small figurine displayed next to the photograph she'd been eyeing. She thought she recognized it.

"Harrow? Hey, Earth to Harrow! You get lost in that head of yours?" Gideon tapped her shoulder.

Harrow grabbed her arm. Hard.

"Ouch! Hey! What was that for!"

"Gideon," Harrow said, "I don't think these are his friends. I don't think the things he collects are worthless junk or rubbish."

"Then what are they? Look, Harrow, he's in every photo. You're telling me he never knew any of these people?"

"No, I'm saying they aren't his friends. Look at that photo, and that one," Harrow pointed, "See where he is in the picture?"

"I'm not seeing it."

"He's standing behind everyone, a little higher than the rest, as though on a step or a platform that's not visible behind the groups of other people. But see, he's the only one. In every single picture, he's the only one."

"Maybe his friends are just really tall. He’s got to stand on something, give himself a boost.”

Harrow huffed. "Gideon, he's looming over them in the frame. His expression is casual enough, but the positioning isn't. These people," she gestured around to all the pictures, "Are deferring to him. They're all looking up, not at us, at him."

"So, what are you saying?"

"The figurines, the statues, what we thought were knickknacks… remember that religious group I told you about?"

"The ones that walked off the planet?"

"Yes. He's got a picture of their founder on his wall, right beside one of their figurines."

"Harrow." It was Gideon's turn to catch sight of something, to grip Harrow's shoulder too tight. "Look on the bottom shelf, a little over to the right."

Harrow followed Gideon's gaze.

It was another photograph of her family and Gideon's father. But this time, there were two babies included, too, being held by each of Harrow's parents. One had dark hair, the other bright red.

"He fucking knew me as a baby," Gideon was shouting, "And fucking left me!"

Harrow paced like a caged animal around the office, running her hands over her hair. "There's something I'm missing. What purpose lies behind all this? What's he trying to do?"

"Fuck my life, I guess. I don't understand anything," Gideon's shoulders slumped. "Why am I even staying here in this hellhole? I should just go. Oh wait, I have nowhere else. Ha!"

"Yes," said Harrow. She grabbed Gideon's hand forcefully and dragged her to the leather couch across from the desk, beneath the window, drew her down so they were sitting side by side. "I think you're right. We should go…somewhere. But not yet. Whatever this is, it involves us. We need to know why. We thought we escaped ten years ago and now look where we’ve ended up.”

Their eyes met.

“Right back where we started,” said Gideon.

“And I have a feeling we won't escape it until we untangle ourselves from the net."

"You said "we," like-like whatever happens you're in it with me."

Harrow nodded. "Well, obviously."

Gideon frowned, pulled away out of Harrow's grasp. Harrow was left reaching out for empty air.

"Don't."

"Why not? I am."

Gideon fixed Harrow with a gaze that made a hot flush creep up her face. "Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove you're in this with me. for good this time."

How? Harrow had abandoned Gideon

But how? How could Harrow prove she wasn't going to up and disappear? Harrow had spent so long alone, so long with everything to prove and no one to prove it to.

Gideon was looking at her like her whole world tilted on the axis of whatever Harrow chose to do next.

Harrow's mind was empty. She, like Gideon, had nothing, no one. She'd been running for so long she'd forgotten how it felt to be still in the company of another person. Proving herself to her parents meant sacrifice, meant learning, meant pain. Is that what Gideon wanted?

But no. Harrow could see it plain as day in Gideon's eyes, the way they lingered on her face. Gideon didn't want that kind of devotion.

There was only one thing Harrow knew to do.

She leaned forward, took Gideon's face in her hands, and pressed their lips together.

The kiss was a shock to both their systems. Harrow hadn't exactly planned it and Gideon hadn't been expecting it. It just sort of bubbled up to the surface, took them down its  unforeseen currents.

Gideon hummed incoherent syllables against Harrow's lips. Harrow could no longer resist. She pressed her forehead to Gideon's, her lips, her breasts, till she could feel each and every rise and fall of Gideon's chest.

Gideon had one hand in Harrow's hair and another on her lower back. They melted into that kiss.

It was the only thing in their lives that made any kind of sense. The world, the house, all the empty spaces in the middle, continued to spin, but inside that strange room of strange, incomprehensible things, they clug to each other and were safe.

Eventually, unwillingly, they pulled apart, breathless and jittery.

They stared at each other.

One opened her mouth to say something at the same time as the other.

Harrow gestured for Gideon to go first.

"Am I going crazy or did you just do that?"

"You're not going crazy."

Gideon leaned back against the worn leather cushion, smiling a small, pleased thing. "Holy shit."

Harrow was still catching her breath. "Definitely." She put her head against Gideon's shoulder, breathing deep.

Her whole body buzzed.

"Harrow?"

"Yes?"

"As wonderful as this is, can we take—whatever this is—like, anywhere else? Please? This room's creeping me out."

"Absolutely," said Harrow. She let Gideon pull her to her feet, thrilling that this time, she did not let go of Harrow's hand.

The house was not done with them. Gideon's father's ties to Harrow and her family's cult were ever deepening. They both knew there was something they were missing, some part they had yet to play in whatever was going on.

But, for now at least, they chose to leave that terrible room and the unknown along with it, locked behind a thick, heavy door. They both wanted to figure out who they could be together first.

Chapter Text

they barely made it inside Harrow's bedroom door before Harrow's patience abandoned her. She pushed the door shut and, before Gideon could let her go, she lent against the door, pulling Gideon into her and into another kiss.

This one was unlike their first. That had been slow, unsure, soft. This kiss was long, desperate

Gideon's lips were urgent as they pressed against Harrow's. Neither wanted to talk. Neither wanted to think. It was too much right now, too uncertain.

But, in the dance of lips and tongues and just the faintest hint of teeth, of breaths and bodies, was a language that they'd been longing and unable to speak for so long they'd almost forgotten how. Harrow found she was trembling and didn't know why. Their hands were everywhere, cupping each other's faces, running fingers wildly through one another's hair, trailing down each other's shoulders and chests and waists.

There were moments that were fast and needy, moments when the layers of clothes between them felt stifling, unbearable. And there were others when they just stood, arms wrapped around each other, swaying slightly, foreheads pressed together, catching their breath, holding it.

In one such lull between kisses, Gideon pulled back to look at Harrow.

"I thought you'd never," she said.

Harrow's thoughts were blissfully hazy, still lingering on the sound Gideon had made when Harrow had pulled a little at her bottom lip. "Never what?"

"Do this. I guess I was waiting, hoping, but you were always so closed off. So, I thought you'd never."

Harrow met her eyes. They were wide, slightly dazed, as if Gideon had just woken from a deep sleep, or had an unexpected gift thrown right in her lap.

"I thought you wouldn't want me to," Harrow said honestly, "Until recently, I thought you hated me."

"Hated you! Hated you? Harrow, I've been obsessed with you for most of my fucking life! I thought you knew that."

"How was I supposed to know?"

Harrow was dizzy, giddy. She felt thoroughly unlike herself and yet more like Harrow than she ever had before.

"Besides, I was horrible to you," Harrow said, the misery flooding in just as soon as she thought she'd shaken it off.

"So was I. But then, where we grew up was pretty fucking horrible. You were way too lost in your books."

Harrow pouted, though she knew what Gideon said was true.

"And my only friend." Gideon finished, "How could I not be a little obsessed with you? Why do you think I was upset when you were avoiding me?"

Harrow blinked. "I, I honestly hadn't thought about that. For my part, I was just afraid I would say something I shouldn't."

Gideon was watching her, every minute movement of her face, with those golden eyes that could have burned up the world. "And what would that be?"

Harrow's insides clenched. She knew she had to say it, knew, if she didn't, it would burst out of her whether she wanted it to or not, knew (now) that Gideon wanted, needed to hear it, but old habits die hard and Harrow's had ruled her life so very, very long. Her throat was dry, her chest aching. All the places where Gideon was touching her tingled.

"I want you," she said.

Gideon grinned that devastating grin. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and something else, something that reminded Harrow of the ache she felt throughout the night before, the ache that was growing in her now.

"Say it again so I know I'm not dreaming." There were notes of equal parts, playfulness and pleading in her voice, as if she wanted Harrow to think she was cool and confident, but there was also uncertainty there, too.

"Do you really?" she seemed to be saying. "I'm not sure yet."

Harrow wanted her to be sure. Harrow wanted and wanted and wanted.

Harrow took Gideon's hand and drew her to the bed. They sat on the edge, breathless, staring at each other, not fully believing this was where they were, what they were doing, what they were about to do.

"Gideon Nav," she said. She put a hand on Gideon's upper thigh, followed the slight part of Gideon's lips with her dark eyes. "I want you."

And then, they were kissing again. Harrow moved her hand slowly up at the same time as Gideon pulled her down onto the bed. They lay on their sides, facing each other.

Neither had much experience in this and so neither knew quite how to handle themselves. Harrow wanted to kiss everywhere, wanted to touch everywhere, wanted to be kissed, to be touched. She wanted to know all the tiny fluctuations in Gideon's voice and body, indicators she was getting close. She wanted to learn Gideon, memorize her like a scripture, sing hymns into her skin the way she once recited prayers into the dark.

Her want was all-consuming, paralyzing.

Gideon broke away, looking down at her. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

She ran a finger along Harrow's jaw, making her shiver with delight and expectation. "You just stopped. We don't have to do this if you don't…"

"It's not that. It's just…" Harrow's cheeks went hot. "Do you know what we're doing because I am not entirely sure how to procede."

Gideon stared at her as the realization dawned that perhaps she didn't have as much knowledge as she would have liked, either. She chose to shrug it off. "I’m sure it's pretty similar to, you know, doing it yourself. Anyway, I've read the comics. And there's always good old BOOBS ON BABES. I could get it if you…"

Harrow groaned. "Ugh! No! Not realistic!"

Gideon laughed, kissed Harrow's cheek, along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone.

"Let me," she said, and Harrow burned at the naked longing in Gideon's voice, "Let me take care of you."

All Harrow could say was "Yes." Gasped it as Gideon pressed kiss after smoldering kiss to her lips.

They couldn't get out of their clothes quick enough.

Her hands shook from anticipation as Harrow tossed her clothes into a pile with Gideon's on the floor.

They sat facing each other, taking each other in. Harrow's eyes moved from Gideon’s face to her bare shoulders, to her muscular arms, to her breasts (much larger than Harrow's own,) nipples already stiff, all the way down to below her waist, where through her pubic hair, Harrow could see the tantalizing glint of wetness. Harrow had the sudden desire to bury her face there, to kiss and kiss and kiss, to get one taste and then another till she was drunk and quaking with it.

Her insides clenched again when she finally looked up to see that Gideon was staring in just the same way, hungrily, devouring every inch of her.

This time, when their lips met and their bodies came together, there was no clothing to block out the warmth.

Gideon hovered over her on the mattress. She kissed the corners of Harrow's mouth, along the sharp angle of her jaw, down her neck. When she came to Harrow's chest, she buried her face in the shallow valley between her breasts for a long, euphoric moment before moving on, to pulling and sucking around Harrow's areolas between her lips. While working one side with her mouth, she traced the other nipple with a delicate finger, light, quick touches that graduated to little twists which made Harrow's breath" catch.

Harrow couldn't help it. She rocked her hips up to meet Gideon's.

It was one thing to see how wet Gideon was from a distance, it was another thing entirely to feel it against her skin, dripping down her thigh when she pushed it between Gideon's legs.

"You're incredible," Harrow murmured into her ear.

To her surprise, Gideon gasped. Her whole body trembled as she ground down onto Harrow, rocking back and forth, making a glorious mess all over Harrow's thigh.

If Harrow thought Gideon was incredible before, it was nothing to this.

Gideon ran a hand down Harrow's body, over her breasts, down her stomach, along the path she'd just been kissing, right between her legs.

Harrow's clit was already pulsing.

"Yes," she moaned into Gideon's shoulder, "Yes, touch me."

But Gideon was teasing now, curling and uncurling knowing fingers through Harrow's pubic hair, tugging gently, making Harrow squirm under her, mouth agape.

She moved herself off of Harrow's thigh. Harrow didn't want her to go. She loved the feel, the weight of her. But then, Gideon spread Harrow's legs open slowly with one hand while twirling through her bush, combing it, telling her how very pretty it was, how very wet it was, and Harrow had no power to object.

Gideon used one hand to come ever closer. The other hand rubbed the insides of her thighs, warming them, and Harrow up.

She even bent her head between Harrow's legs (Harrow forgot how to breathe) and kissed up them, from the knees to Harrow's bikini line and back down, stopping, at long last, at Harrow's aching clit.

She emerged to kiss Harrow's lips, and Harrow could taste herself on Gideon's tongue.

"You taste so good," Gideon said. She was panting. Her chin was glistening.

Harrow ran a hand through her hair, messing it up, kissing her again.

"Touch me," she said into the kiss.

And then, Gideon, still kissing her, reached between Harrow's legs and put a finger on Harrow's clit.

She rubbed it back and forth, back and forth, with slow, smooth caresses. Both their breaths were coming fast now. With every pass of Harrow's clit, Gideon thrust her hips down into Harrow's thigh until they were moving as one.

Harrow was at the point now where keeping still was impossible. She rocked and wriggled and arched under Gideon's relentless fingertips.

"Oh, you're so good. You're so good." Words were spilling out of her now as Gideon picked up the pace. "You're perfect, perfect, oh!"

Gideon began to grind faster. Harrow bounced the leg beneath her, helping her along. She threw her head back, Harrow's name on her lips, again and again and again until, pressing down one final time, she came.

Harrow felt Gideon's body shudder, felt the cum squirt on to her leg. Gideon took a few seconds to collapse against Harrow's heaving chest, cover her with kisses, just breathe deep, before pushing herself up to tend to Harrow, undistracted

She was doing small, rapid circles with her fingers on Harrow's clit. And then, she trailed a single finger down, right to the edge of Harrow's vagina.

With one buck of Harrow's hips, Gideon was inside.

She started slow, just like she had on Harrow's clit, moving ever so gradually and and out and deeper.

Harrow, meanwhile, kept up a constant stream of praise and assurance.

"Yes! You can do more. Yes, oh! You're perfect!" She knew she was babbling but couldn't seem to stop. The best part of all was seeing the effect she had on Gideon. Even though she had already finished, at Harrow's words she would lose focus and Harrow could feel her legs shake. It was exhilarating, this power she now knew she possessed. There was nothing like a barely contained Gideon Nav to multiply Harrow's pleasure.

One finger became two, two became three. They moved in a steady rhythm In, out. In, out. Then, Gideon curled her finger inside Curl, uncurl.

Harrow whole body was quivering, teetering on the edge.

"Just a little more," Harrow gasped, "Just a little, a little more."

In answer to her plea, Gideon flicked her thumb over Harrow's clit, still continuing that same even rhythm but adding the clit to it.

Harrow came alive at her touch.

Her legs shook. The bed creaked. She was glad there were extra pillows because she jerked her head in her ecstacy. And, with one final curl inside, she came. Hard. Rolling into another. With Gideon's name on her lips.

The bed, and the two people on it, was a mess. Blankets and pillows were scattered on the floor. They did not care.        They fell into each other's arms again, this time relax, there to stay.

Harrow tucked some hair behind Gideon's ear. Pulled her against her still trembling body, wrapped an arm around her waist.

"I'm in it with you," she said, "For good."