Meredith trusts numbers. Fifteen years as a London risk analyst taught her that grief can be managed and the impossible doors of her childhood were imagination. Then her estranged grandmother dies, and the cottage she fled begins calling her home.
The house remembers her. It warms the kettle, delivers a letter from a dead woman naming her guardian, and opens onto moonlit forests where a fox-like caretaker waits with tea. But the barriers keeping darker things out weaken by the day. The equinox is coming, and the house needs a Trevelyn.
Meredith spent fifteen years running from what she is. The house kept the door open.
For readers of The Haunting of Whitehall Manor, Craven Manor, and Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger.