“You need to change out of those wet clothes,” Sophie said, always in her role as bossy big sister. “Maybe put on that cloak.”

Claire let out a strangled yelp. No way was she going to put on something that strongly resembled a Royalist cloak!

Sophie, oddly, didn’t seem bothered by it. Even though it was the Royalists who had almost succeeded in killing her.

“Or,” Sophie continued, “there are some dresses in there.” She pointed to a freestanding wardrobe in an adjoining bedroom.

“What is up with you?” Claire asked as she shuffled over to the wardrobe, then opened it to reveal five or six black gowns, all identical to Sophie’s, along with matching pointy hats. At least now it was clear where Sophie had gotten her strange outfit. Typical Sophie. She would play dress-up, even in this unusual situation.

“Nothing,” Sophie said from the main room. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just—you’re acting like you own this place, like you’ve been here for ages, like you’ve been expecting me, even though you couldn’t have been exactly sure of where I’d gone.”

“I guess I just know you better than you think, Claire,” she said. But not Clairina, like she usually called her. Something was off with Sophie, and it was making Claire feel itchy and frustrated, but it was hard to put her finger on what was wrong, especially as she was still dripping wet and exhausted from her journey.

After peeling off her wet tunic, Claire pulled on a dress. It was way too big for her and pooled around her feet like melted wax around a candle. But it was dry, at least. And warm.

Next, she took the pencil out and squeezed the salt water from her damp braid, making a face at the strange texture of her hair. Next to Mom and Dad, Claire missed her shampoo and detangling spray above all else. She debated undoing the french braid she had coaxed Sena into doing before she snuck away, but she was too tired to deal with the snarls that would come as a result. Maybe she would just— Wait, what was that?

Claire stopped squeezing the end of her braid and gripped her pencil as though it were a staff from Gemmer practice. She thought she’d heard someone say something, a word, maybe, or a sniffle, low and mournful. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Sophie was still in the kitchen.

Then it came again, quiet, almost like a hush. “Help.”

A chill moved through her.

Someone else was in the house.

Chapter Four

CHAPTER

4