I glance behind me at the dark street, realizing that I need to make a decision—inside or outside—and that the longer I linger in the doorway of an abandoned shop, the more likely I am to attract attention. “Dang it,” I say, and slip inside the dark building.

My heart pounds so loudly that it makes it harder for me to listen in the darkness. I pull out my phone, lighting up the screen, but all it does is make the area directly around me visible and make it impossible for my eyes to adjust. So I slip it back in my pocket and stand still in the darkness, silently hoping I didn’t just make the worst decision of my life.

Then suddenly a candle flame appears at the far end of the room and I jump backward, nearly colliding with the door. But behind the candle, emerging from a staircase, is a girl with a high ponytail and a no-nonsense expression.

“Layla!” I squeal, both relieved that Matteo was telling the truth and genuinely delighted to see her.

“Lock the door,” she says in her usual peremptory tone, but even from this distance I can tell she’s smiling.

I click the lock into place and walk toward her with enthusiasm. In the light of her candle, I can make out finely carved wood that must once have been painted a crisp white, and glass displays full of lace and frills. Old cloth mannequins are propped up wearing faded Victorian dresses, and broad-brimmed hats lie forgotten on the floor.

Layla follows my gaze. “This place used to be a dress shop run by one of my relatives in the late eighteen hundreds,” she explains. “Ash and I liked to come here when we were little and trying to get away from our parents.”

At which point I give her a hug. And when I pull away, she looks slightly embarrassed, like she’s not sure why I keep doing that, but she also doesn’t tell me to stop.

“I discovered that we owned this property when I was going through some financial records when I was six,” she says before I can start badgering her with questions about being in London. “It took us about a year before we had the opportunity to seek it out, but I was delighted when I discovered it was essentially a forgotten building, lost in another time. It became our hideout.”

I follow her up a narrow staircase. “Why am I not surprised that you were going through financial records when you were six?” I say, and she looks pleased by my assessment of her.