The forest closed around them like a jaw.

Not the ornamental gardens behind Grimshaw Hall—this was the old woodland on the estate’s northern edge. Birch, hawthorn, and ancient yews twisted together into a black canopy that smothered moonlight and magnified every breath into a cloud of white.

Georgie hauled Don fully upright.

‘Can you run?’

He nodded, breath ragged. ‘I can now.’

‘Good,’ Samson said sharply. ‘Because we are not staying here.’

Masha clambered away from the hatch, brushing dirt from her arms. She looked like a small, frightened bird—mud-streaked, trembling, but alive.

‘This way,’ she whispered, pointing deeper into the trees. ‘Stream close. Path after. You move fast.’

Rigg...

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