Once again the band stops, only this time it’s Rose who stands. “If everyone will please take their seats, the serving staff will bring in dinner,” she says, and her delivery is cold, lacking the charisma that came so easily to her father. “Your invitation included your seating assignment. However, if you are unsure which table number is yours, please consult the gentleman at the entrance.” She gestures toward Hawk. “Enjoy.”

“Oh, shit,” I say, and we all share a look. We are about to become blaringly obvious the moment people sit down.

“If we’re lucky there will be openings at one or more of the tables,” Ash says, and I can hear the apology in his voice. “But getting into them without being noticed is unlikely. I’m sorry, November, it’s time for us to go.”

I fight back panic. “The Ferryman is closing in on my dad—tonight. There’s no way I can leave when we’re this close.”

“Finding the message isn’t worth being killed,” Ash says when I don’t move.

I hesitate for a moment longer, searching for any argument that we should stay. But as much as I hate it, I know Ash is right—there’s no finding my dad if Jag gets ahold of us.

Aarya eyes Hawk. “We’re not getting back through that door, not without creating a scene.”

“We’ll have to risk the bathrooms,” Ash says, and Ines nods her agreement, but I don’t ask them what they mean because all my concentration is still on the pinecones.

Aarya leads the way to the door with the WC sign above it and the large security guard. We pass tables twenty-two and twenty-three, which I scour with unabashed hope. But like all the other centerpieces, there is nothing unique about the pinecones. I feel like screaming, I’m so mad at myself, at my dad, and at the situation in general.

Every step we take toward the door feels like a failure.

“November,” Ash says when I lag by a step.

“Fifty tables, Ash, and we only looked at fifteen of them,” I say. “Why on earth would my dad leave us that many tables to search? He could have at least left me the table number in the last clue.” And as soon as I say it, I stop walking and look up at Ash with new determination. “Ash, when was the date of that historic ball from Logan’s sign? The Bal des Ardents.” My words are fast.

Ash stops, too, and his eyebrows momentarily dip. “The year was 1393.” He pauses. “I want to say January?”

“We will never exit this room,” Aarya says, like maybe we don’t understand the gravity of getting caught, “if we don’t walk toward the door.”

“Ines, what was the date of Bal des Ardents?” Ash says, ignoring Aarya.

“January twenty-eighth, 1393,” Ines replies, and recognition of the missing clue sparks in her eyes.