The halls wind. Twist, over and on themselves. Instinct drags a hand along wall. Something prickles back, papered rough as sharkskin –

Hostile. She presses harder, and blood smears. Wayfinding.

"Left," She suggests. If you take only lefts, you can exit any maze, "Maybe he does not like this. Maybe he leaves."

Leaves Mother, leaves this house. A maze of came-and-lefts. The blood repeats: Ahead of Benedict, behind her, no matter where they turn.