Instead, she was left on her own. Again.

Her sense of loneliness threatened to crush the breath out of her. She had no one—not in a world where people kept their secrets closely guarded, disclosing only the tiniest glimmers of truth.

She poured herself a glass and collapsed onto the stiff crimson settee. Might as well make use of this.

She tried to ignore the ache of isolation gnawing at her chest, and flipped open her phone, scanning the news. A story about a crazed fan at Club Lalique was the top story. Fortunately, Zee had apparently glamoured everyone into believing the assailant was a blue-haired man with a tattoo of a spider on his cheek. It was a bizarre enough description that it wouldn’t lead to any false arrests. Only Hugo would still remember the truth.

Kester was right. She needed to find him as soon as she could, or the truth would get out.

And yet, Kester’s secrecy made her blood boil. The man was full of mysteries: the death of Henry, the truth about Zee, his own mysterious past, the locked library books—even the forbidden room upstairs.

At this point, she was entirely dependent on him to tell her about this bizarre new world, yet the guy clearly wasn’t trustworthy. He was the Headsman, for crying out loud. He’d even referred to himself as a monster. How could she trust anything he said? What if all of this was a lie, and there was another way out?

Moreover—what was it he was so desperate to keep from her, that stood locked in her own apartment? He’d said this was her place, but he sure didn’t act that way. There were rooms she couldn’t enter, while Kester was free to swan in and out whenever he pleased. She drained another glass of champagne. She was going to start finding out secrets on her own.

She refilled her champagne flute and rose. Clutching the glass, she hurried upstairs into the hallway. As the bubbly took hold of her mind, her mood brightened. I’m not a screw-up. I just have a normal aversion to sending people to hell.

At the end of the dark corridor, the forbidden oak door shone with an otherworldly light.

Slowly, she approached the door, its surface punctuated by iron spikes. It certainly didn’t look inviting, but maybe some kind of answers lay inside. She was done with secrets. She gripped the doorknob, cursing when it wouldn’t twist open. Kester hadn’t lied when he said it was locked. She’d need to find another way in.

She stalked down the hall to the botanical room, which stood adjacent to the locked door. She inhaled deeply. Oranges, rosemary, and marigolds. Kester hadn’t just had the place cleaned—he’d had the whole greenroom replanted.