I woke with a ring of stitches around my throat and no memory of how I got them. My husband insisted I'd been ill, that I was lucky to have recovered. But the house had turned strange since my return to it. Roses withered at my touch. Mirrors showed movement in empty rooms. At night, I heard scratching in the walls, always in threes, and woke to find my belongings rearranged. The servants whispered prayers when they thought I couldn't hear, and one by one, they fled. But my body knew things it shouldn't. My hands played piano concertos I'd never learned. My legs performed ballet steps I'd never practiced. I spoke languages I'd never studied. And in the darkness of our bedroom, something watched. Something furious and familiar and far too close. My husband called it trauma. I called it haunting. The house was keeping secrets. My husband was keeping more. And whatever was tormenting me wasn't going to rest until I remembered what I was never meant to know.