She could hear herself breathing far too loudly. In her exhaustion, nothing looked distinct or real. The shadows outside the light were soft as mist but sharpened into long, severe lines as she walked. She stretched out her hand into the empty space to keep herself from bumping into anything—or anyone.

At last, her searching fingers gripped something solid and cold: the balustrades of the grand staircase. She sagged against it in relief. Past the banister, the long descent to the ground level seemed an endless chasm. The only light came from her candelabra, reflected dully in a tarnished mirror across the atrium. It looked as if another tired girl in a nightgown stared back at her.

Although she was loath to wander deeper into the dark, her curiosity got the best of her. She descended step by step until her bare feet touched the floor. The chill radiated from her soles to her crown. As she was about to call out, a noise—stone clattering against stone—rooted her in place. Then, the rustle of fabric.

Something was moving behind the tapestry.

Someone was in the forbidden east wing.

Wren extinguished the candles with a single breath and ducked behind a sofa. Slow, uneven footsteps marked every terrible second. From her vantage point, she saw the orange spill of lamplight on the swollen floorboards. She dared to flatten herself against the ground, shuddering at the cold raking across her belly. She caught a glimpse of black polished boots adorned with a neat row of silver buttons. Another shimmy forward brought the figure into full view.

Lowry. Despite the bitter cold, he wore no jacket and the sleeves of his stark white shirt were rolled up to the elbows and—

Was that blood?

It flowed in rivulets down his arm and beaded on his fingertips. He must have been the one who cried out. But what was he doing in the east wing? He’d told her it was dangerous—dangerous enough to get a wound like that.

Lowry held his arm up to the light. He flexed his fingers and scrutinized the way the tendons in his wrist corded against his skin. With every squeeze of his fist, blood seeped from his wound afresh. What was that look on his face? Assessment or admiration? She was obviously intruding on something she wasn’t meant to see. And although it wasn’t rational to be afraid, she didn’t want to know what he’d do if he found her here. Nothing good could come of it.

As she shifted her weight backward, the floorboard whined beneath her.

The ensuing silence was resounding.

“Hello?”

His footsteps thudded menacingly on the floorboards. His lantern light glided toward her. Wren held her breath and cupped her hands over her mouth.

For a brittle eternity, Lowry did not move.

Then, with an indistinct mutter, he turned away. Darkness flowed back in like the tide.