My eyes settle on Annalise drifting around the edges of the room like a ghost haunting this place. At some point she stood under that cursed rosebush, because red streaks have dyed her hair and tiny specks sprinkle her dress. I move to the outside edges, trying not to look like I’m tracking her. I can feel stares on me, though. Maybe Roman’s, maybe my troupe’s. I lean against the wall despite the red veins spreading upward like cracks in the foundation, trying to look natural, but the wall’s warm. My stomach lurches. I want out of this room, but I take deep breaths, looking out at the sea of faces without really seeing. All I care about is one. I’m directly in her looping path now, and for a second I think she’s going to pass right through me as if she’s an actual ghost, but at the last minute she steps slightly to the side, walking by me so closely that her hair, spiderweb thin and wet, brushes my arm. I barely hold back a gag. She smells of copper and rotting roses.

“Hello,” I say.

She keeps walking.

“Hello?” This time I touch her arm. I don’t want to. My hand comes back sticky.

She pauses, tilting her head like I’m the ghost whispering in her ear. She turns toward me with big gray eyes the color of pale morning sky. “Can I help you?” Her voice is a light rasp. She seems surprised by it.

“Sorry to bother you…” I trail off. I didn’t exactly plan what to say. “Shouldn’t you be wiping the memories of the apprentices who just lost?”

She blinks. “What memories?” Her eyes share the same dense fog that blankets this place, but they sharpen a little as she seems to register the blood on her. “I’m sorry. I really need to change.”

She drifts away, and I start to take a step after her, but a warm, paper-soft hand closes around my arm.

“Best not to draw attention to yourself.”

I turn to meet Julia’s tired face. Up close, she’s older than I thought, with the deep lines on her face of someone who used to experience every emotion without hiding any of them. There’s a slight droop to her cheeks, though, like some emotions were too much.

“Julia.”

She doesn’t seem surprised that I know her name. “You look like your mother,” she says.