Rose House, labyrinthine. In the non-light before dawn, there are soft footsteps in its hallways, across the floors of its halls and chambers; there are footsteps, no matter who is there to hear them. Rose House, singular, alone—turning in on itself. The drowning pool is emptied of water. The coral door is locked. The sound of laughter on the wires: sunlight and dust, petrichor. Deniau’s houses were haunted to begin with. All of them. But Rose House was the last-built and the best.
--Arkady Martine, Rose/House











