He does not believe in my “prophecy,” but I wouldn’t let the matter drop, so he promised to stay away from the spot. When that wasn’t enough, he agreed—far too easily—to allow me to accompany him.

I should have seen through that in a blink, but I’d been too relieved to examine it more closely. I only cared that he wasn’t arguing. I only cared that I could help him.

Yes, you may come, child. Oh, but you must change first. Quickly. I cannot wait longer than fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes? Ha! I did not need so long at all. That’s what I thought, rather than wondering why he was being so generous with the schedule.

Because he wanted time to escape. To lock me in a room and ensure that, by the time I realized I was trapped, he’d be long gone.

Well, Dr. Dupuis, let us see about that.

I yank off my cap and pull out a hairpin. Within moments, the door is open. I step out and slide on something on the floor. When I look down, I see the key.

The key is on the floor. Just outside the room.

Because Nicolas left it there, where I’d eventually find it, snag it and get free. He didn’t mean to trap me forever. Just long enough for him to escape.

I slap my cap back in place and adjust it as I stride out the door. Also, may I just say how much easier “striding” is in trousers? In my mind, I’m often marching with purpose, but when one is wearing five layers of floor-length skirts, striding is primarily a state of mind. Now I can actually walk with purpose, which is fitting, as I have rarely been in a mood to move quite so resolutely.

I am also, let us be honest, in half a mind to run like a mad creature and drag Nicolas from the Reaper’s path, at sword point if necessary. He is walking to his death, and I cannot allow that.

I first saw the echo of his death years ago while accompanying Rosalind and August on a weekend excursion to Thorne Manor. I had been wandering the moors. If one is fond of wandering—as I am—there is no place better to do it. Cutting down empty bridle paths and following sheep across open fields, all the while surrounded by the sort of haunting landscape that inspires the latent poet in my soul. In those wanderings, I met Nicolas Dupuis.

Except I did not meet him at all, did I?

Here’s the quandary I face. I have watched him walk down that road so many times that I feel entitled to think of him as “Nicolas,” which is a shocking familiarity even for one who abhors the stiff formalities of society.

I have seen him on his mission. I have walked alongside him. I have even spoken to him, being glad no one was there to witness it. Pure sentimentality, as he was not even a ghost and able to hear me. Merely an echo of himself, scorched onto that spot, as if the ground itself had been scarred by his untimely demise.