I knock again, and the door opens. For a second, I think he opened it, and I wait for him to step out, but there’s nobody on the other side. Then I realize… I opened it. My magic. I hesitate for only a moment—I don’t know him well as my father, but from what I’ve heard and seen of him as a ruler, I’m afraid to get caught.

But if I have a chance to look around for answers, then I’ll take it.

I step inside. The room’s so warm it startles me. A fire blazes in a gaping fireplace. The mantel looks like it’s been made from roses woven together and dipped in tar. I step toward it. It’s so realistic that there are tiny thorns that appear sharp enough to draw blood. I don’t test it.

The rose theme continues in the rest of the room. A rug of deep burgundy with black roses in vines around the edges takes up the center of the room. The long tufted couch and two matching chairs are the color of wilted red petals. Even their dark wooden legs boast a faint carving of the blooming flowers. Mahogany bookcases line the room, their arched tops carved to look like vines of roses dangling down and reaching for the books. An open door leads to the next room, and I can make out a four-poster bed that’s almost certainly carved with the same design.

Either he loves roses as much as Mom did, or he really loved her, and this is as much a shrine as the hallway.

My skin crawls. It feels more like obsession than love.

The most stunning thing in the room is the solid-glass square coffee table. Inside, a captive rosebush repeatedly blooms and then wilts. It’s eerie to watch the birth and death of the petals again and again. Perhaps it’s soothing for an immortal. Magic radiates out from it, and I step forward to inspect the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—not the table, but the small box on top of it.

I bend down and examine it. It’s gold-plated or maybe pure gold. Careful swirls of wind or fog are carved into every inch of it, weaving together like an uncontrollable storm, and every so often a flower emerges in the swirls. I press a finger to the lid and jerk my hand back. The smell of rotting flowers coats the back of my throat. This table isn’t magical at all compared to the power coming off this.