I felt like the room was turning from Midas’ touch, from antique to amber, and I imagined I was turning too, sealed into gold forever with my back bent over a very big cardboard box, spending the rest of the time like a Greek punishment, unpacking forever. 
Thea’s voice echoed down the hall, “Luna Jean.” 
I broke the curse and rose from the box, feeling each vertebra click into place. I exhaled in relief, hands braced on my hips as I looked out onto the overgrown lawn of our new home, Ichor, the manor of which was now mine. I looked around the room, his study. Apparently, this is where the original owner, my great great uncle, Lord Kestrel, died. They had found him with his clothes torn apart, laying in a pool of splinters, claw marks, and blood,  his eyes glossed over from death, a hand reaching out to his beloved blade, as if he was attempting to fight his end. 
I looked at the walls. So quiet, it feels like they are holding their breath, the humidity of dust and stuffiness of oxygen slipping through their locked lips. 
“Luna Jean.” 
Thea leans onto the threshold of the tomb. Her heavy-lidded eyes scanned the faded walls in concern. A corner of her lips pulled down, betraying her. 
“It just needs a new coat of paint,” I said. 
Thea nods, studying the claw marks strewn across the wooden floor. I note them too. Nowhere in his report did it note these marks, slashed around the manor, especially in the study. 
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I say, looking at the marks, Thea shrugs in my peripheral vision. 
“A Lord in an English manor, he must have had some hounds for the good ol' hunt,” she offers, finishing her words with a horrid accent. Satisfied, she leans back, groaning as she rocks back to wring her spine from aches, before ascending to stand again with a yawn. 
I blink at Thea, worn down from a day of unpacking, her shoulders rounded, signaling that she is close to passing out in any bed available. I grin at my poor wife,  shaking my head at her attempt at being coherent. 
I offer, “Want to take a break?” 
Thea  sheepishly nods. 
“I kind of want to check out the Festival the ferry man was talking about,” she says between another yawn. 
I smirk at her, no matter how exhausted she may be, Thea would rally for any festivities, “Are you sure you can make it?” 
Thea wipes her eyes, shielding another heavy exhale from me. My cheeks burn as I grin at her, immaculate in the light, the lithe lines of her frame exaggerated in the shadow, collaborating her into the rest of the curse of the Midas touch, taking up the role of  someone sworn to unpack life’s burdens.
“Come on,” Thea says, dewy eyed, she grips my hands, drawing me out from the study with a toothy grin, breaking me out of the amber cell. 
“Let’s go before I drop,” she whispers, her eyes shining. 
She meanders down the corridor, down the stairs, towing me past the wounds of the house; indents in the wall, slashes in the wood. I don’t think a lord would allow his hounds into his home, let alone leave marks on his estate. As we closed in on the front door of Ichor, I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Thea seems unbothered, throwing her hand over the indented doorknob, yawning as she pulls the door open. A chill washes over my body. My heels sink into the floor. 
Look at me. 
My head turns to the portrait that greets us in the foyer. It is of Lord...