She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. In the frost-covered panes, Manhattan’s lights appeared hazy and distorted.

She gazed down at the yellow taxis and the few pedestrians foolhardy enough to brave the winter night. What were they doing, with their normal human lives? Hurrying to their parents, their spouses, their lovers? Maybe just slipping down the block for last call at the bar?

Still agitated, she took a long slug of her champagne. She’d grown sick of all secrets and mystery. She didn’t want to be the bloody Mystery Girl. She wanted to know where she came from, who her parents were, and how she’d ended up with Emerazel’s mark carved in her shoulder. But short of that information, she at least wanted to know what lurked in the locked room in her own apartment. Is that too much to ask?

She glanced at the windowsill. A little brass handle protruded from the iron rail, and she pulled at it, cracking it open. I guess that answers my question about penthouse windows.

If she was going to break into the locked room, her only hope was to climb along the outside wall and through one of its windows. She drained the last drops of her champagne. She’d need a little Dutch courage for this.

A hard push was enough to open the window wide. A frigid breeze blew into the room. Ursula held tight to the sill, leaning out, and peered to her left, at the windows of the locked room just eight feet away.

A small stone ledge jutted from the wall a few feet below, barely large enough for her to stand on. A giddy thrill bubbled through her—one which turned terrifying when she looked past the ledge at the streets below. She was at least fifteen stories up.

She edged back into the safety of the conservatory. She needed a plan. One slip on the ledge would send her plunging to her death. Crawling would be safest. On her hands and knees she’d be more stable.

Still, she would need a way to pry open the window of the locked room. A crowbar would be ideal, but it was too late for a trip to the hardware store. A small blade might work, and that was something she had.

She hurried to her bedroom, snatching the dagger from under her pillow.

Her pulse raced as she returned to the conservatory. The window was still open. She held her breath and crawled through it and onto the ledge, keeping the knife clenched between her teeth.