I chew on my lip, working my way through the messages we’ve received thus far. “The first clue we got was in the photo collage in my room…and it pointed to an exact spot in the woods,” I say. “That message pointed us to Angus—to a specific person. And then from Angus we were told to go speak to Logan, which is another specific clue. But from Logan we learned that my dad is accused of killing the Regent and is in London? London isn’t specific enough. That doesn’t match the pattern of my dad’s other clues.”

“True,” Ash says slowly, like he’s considering my words.

“Was there something we missed in there? Something Logan said or didn’t say?” I ask.

“I’m playing the conversation back, but there’s nothing that I would flag as having a double meaning. Was there anything he said that you noticed, possibly something symbolic or personal?”

I shake my head slowly. “Nothing.”

“What about something in the barn?” Ash asks.

“Not really,” I say, pausing to re-create the smithy in my mind. “We have tools at home, but none of them are related to blacksmith work. And the other objects were pretty nonspecific—workbenches, fireplace, swords…” My voice trails off and I make eye contact with Ash. “Wait…there was that sign in French—”

“Bal des Ardents,” Ash says. “Ball of the Burning Men. It was a masquerade ball in 1393 hosted by Charles the Fourth where four costumed dancers caught fire and died.”

“A masquerade ball,” I say quickly, my voice lightening with an excited uptick. “We had one every summer in Pembrook.”

“And you think your father might use a masquerade ball as a coded message to you?” Ash asks.

“Maybe,” I say. “It matches the other clues in that it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me.” I pause to consider what it all might mean. “The masquerade ball was one of the few town events that we consistently participated in. The balls were always themed and every year for the past eight years or so my dad and I were in charge of decorations. We would build them and the art teacher at my high school would paint them.”

The corners of Ash’s mouth turn up in a smile.

“What?”

“Nothing. I mean, it isn’t anything we haven’t said before,” he says. “It’s just that your upbringing was so wildly different than mine. I can’t imagine making dance decorations with my parents, unless we were installing surveillance devices in them. And even then, someone else would make them and we would just supervise.”

I smile, too. “It was actually a lot of fun.”

“Exactly my point,” he says, and we share a look.