There are poisons that blind you, and poisons that open your eyes.”

August Strindberg, The Ghost Sonata

Lizzie stopped her gray Honda civic at the gate, brakes squealing to remind her they were overdue for service. She leaned over the steering wheel and peered down the long drive. The voice from the intercom startled her.

“Yes?”

Lizzie turned and leaned out the window, raising her voice and speaking into the box.

“My name is Elisabeth Mauregny, and–” before she could finish, the gates clanged and rumbled, slowly opening inward to allow her entrance. She glanced from the intercom to the gates and slowly put the car into gear.

Lizzie pulled into the estate and as the gates clapped closed behind her, she felt her stomach tighten. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as nerves threatened to overtake her. She breathed deeply, taking in the cool, clean air. Rows of immaculately kept oak trees gave way to pockets of breathtaking landscaping. As the trees cleared, a cottage came into view, and Lizzie stopped the car. She got out and stretched; six hours of driving, and she was quite sore.

She started up the cobblestone walk and stepped onto the porch, surprised by a voice behind her. Lizzie turned.

“You’re in the wrong place,” the man said, pulling off his gardening gloves and thrusting them in his back pocket. “I think you want the main house.”

“Main house?” Lizzie moved back toward her car. “Isn’t this–”

“Oh, no,” he laughed, shaking his head. His brown hair shined auburn in the sun, and his eyes sparkled. “You want the main house, not my crappy cottage.”

She smiled and extended her hand. “Elisabeth Mauregny.”

He stepped forward, accepted her hand, and held it for a moment. “Raven?”

Lizzie was taken aback. Why did she know that name? It seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She held his hand and searched his face.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” he swept her into an enormous hug, lifting her off her feet. She laughed in a mix of confusion, discomfort, and glee. She hadn’t been hugged like that, perhaps ever, in her life.

He released her, setting her down; his hands remained on her arms. “You don’t remember me. My dad is Stuart, the butler. We played together when you spent summers here. Don’t you remember?”

Lizzie looked at him blankly. “But, I’ve never been here before.”