“That’s what I know,” he says. “Your body language is virtually screaming ‘attraction.’ You’ve uncrossed your arms and you’re leaning toward me—signs that you’re much more open and engaged than you were a minute ago. You’ve also tilted your head slightly, which suggests interest and makes your pheromones easier to detect. And those are only a couple of the indicators.”

My smile widens. “Show-off.”

He laughs. “Who ever said modesty was a virtue?”

“Not a Strategia, that’s for sure.”

“Certainly not,” he says, and once again offers me the crook of his arm.

I let out a long exhale and wind my arm in his. “Okay, let’s do this.” And just like that my mind focuses back on the task at hand. My dad left me one clue, and however cryptically annoying it may be, this is my only chance to figure it out.

Ash and I make our way down the stairs, only we don’t stop at the ground floor; we continue down to a space that I can only describe as a lavish dungeon. The walls are gray stone studded with iron sconces and the furniture is dark wood appointed with red velvet. The bar itself has a wooden canopy over it that is carved into points and spires, mimicking the outside architecture of the manor.

I immediately head for a small table near the fireplace and Ash doesn’t object; it provides us with a good view of the room and is far enough from the other tables to allow us to speak without easily being overheard. Plus, the crackling wood masks sounds like white noise.

As I pass through the bar and tables my pulse quickens. The patrons around us are beautifully dressed, seemingly relaxed, and doing nothing more than drinking, eating, and carrying on jovial conversations. Nevertheless, I notice the same subtle and discerning glances as the students in the Academy once gave me. No one looks at us in an obvious way; their movements are deliberate and controlled. And it occurs to me that I no longer see the world the way I once did, that the Strategia part of me is growing.

Ash pulls out a chair at the small table and I move the long skirt of my dress to the side as I sit down. The warmth from the fire momentarily takes the edge off my nerves. Ash situates himself next to me, and as I listen to the hum of conversations in the room, it strikes me that I only hear Scottish accents.

“Oh god,” I say, “I don’t think I can do a Scottish accent—not believably, anyway.”

Ash nods, like he’s already considered this. “An American accent isn’t actually a problem,” he says with a Scottish accent so perfect it makes me want to groan. “Makes you appear to be a tourist, which is a persona any Strategia might use.”