Amelia received the invitation by way of a footman who looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Higher tier address. Polished boots, clean brass, just enough restraint to suggest money without shouting it. She accepted, though she left Corax with me in case the matter proved genuinely arcane.

He was insufferable about it.

“I miss everything of interest,” he said from the rafters. “I’d think you’d appreciate the quiet time,” I told him. “I know I would.”

Determined to ensure I got nothing done, Corax relayed a continuous stream of impressions and opinions. I made notes of the useful parts. There were not many.

The house presented as expected. Husband pale, wife worse, maid on the verge of resignation or hysteria. All three described the same phenomena. Whispering in empty rooms. Footsteps along the corridor at night. A pressure on the chest, as though something sat on them while they slept. Always worse after dusk.

Amelia felt nothing.

No residue, no echo, no psychic imprint. She later described it as walking into a sealed box. Stale, close, and entirely mundane. Amelia has no patience for the mundane.

Corax, listening through the link, described it as “air one ought not to trust,” which is as close as he comes to useful.

The bird gave it away.

A small finch in a brass cage by the window. Alive, but sluggish. Feathers puffed, movements delayed, as though it had forgotten how to be a bird. Amelia watched it longer than she watched the family.

Then she checked the lamps. One burned weak and erratic.

Gas-fed, centrally placed, left burning well into the night. She ran a soapy water test along the piping and fittings. Corax reports she did this while the husband attempted to explain the house’s history, which she ignored entirely.

Bubbles formed along a joint near the base. Small. Persistent.

No haunting. Just a slow leak.

She had the windows opened, the lamp extinguished, and the family moved into fresh air with a tone usually reserved for stubborn children. Instructions followed. Clear, practical, difficult to misunderstand.

«I am a tradesman now,» she informed us through Corax. “You love it,” I said. “Getting your hands dirty suits you.” «At least the bird survives.» “This one won’t if you don’t get back soon.”

The house stopped whispering shortly after.

Funny how often voices vanish once someone lets in proper air.