“November,” Aarya says with insistence, and I turn toward her. “Now. You need to find that message from your father now.” She nods in the direction of the door. Hawk stands inside it, scouring the party guests like he’s looking for something. And I’m willing to bet the something he’s looking for is me.

My breath comes fast and my mind spins, making it harder to concentrate. I scan the decorations again, searching for anything that might spark recognition. But they appear as uniform as they did a few minutes ago. I want to cry out of frustration. Everywhere I look is a dead end. The crowd thins a bit behind us, and Aarya pushes us farther into the center of the room and away from Hawk.

“November,” Aarya says again with emphasis.

“I know,” I say, matching her urgency, trying to clear my thoughts of panic.

“Well, whether you know or not, we need to get out of here,” she says.

“Enough, Aarya. You’re not helping,” Ash says.

“Helping? I’m trying to keep us alive,” Aarya says.

“Don’t focus on the room, focus on what you know,” Ines says, and I turn to her. “You told us you used to make party decorations with your father, no? What exactly did you do?”

I consider Ines’s question, forcing myself not to look at the surrounding threats. “We built them from scratch. We’d go to the art supply store and a hardware store and spend a good couple of weeks during the summer constructing them,” I say.

“Let’s start with that. Most of these decorations aren’t handmade,” Ines says, and I realize she’s right. “Arguably nothing in this room was crafted except the centerpieces on the tables.”

Ash nods his agreement. “And in those centerpieces, the most handcrafted item is the branch with the pinecones—the tips were painted white and they had to be glued onto the branch,” he offers, and before he even finishes speaking, I’m looking at the centerpieces, hopeful.

“So, okay, sentimental pinecones,” Aarya says with urgency, telling me we’re just about out of time. “Let’s start looking.”

We weave in and out of the tables, subtly inspecting the pinecones in each vase as we go. But each table has decorations like the one before it—one branch, four pinecones, and no message. My stomach twists and my chest tightens. My eyes flit nervously to Hawk. If we’re wrong about these pinecones, there’s no time to make a second guess.