The rings on Holland’s fingers sparkled as she took a step toward me. The fine fabric of her dress rippled like melted silver, and the combs in her hair twinkled. I couldn’t help but think that she was like someone from one of the old tales. A specter or a sea fairy. Something not of this world.

The same had been true of my mother.

Holland reached for my hand, taking it into hers, and she held it between us, turning it so my palm faced up. Her thumbs spread over the lines there, and her hold on me tightened when she saw the tip of my scar peeking out from beneath my sleeve.

Her pale blue eyes lifted to meet mine and she let me go. “Welcome home, Fable.”

Home.

The word stretched and folded, the sound of it strange.

I clutched my skirts with both hands and walked through the door, biting back the turn of my stomach. Saint may have gotten what he wanted, but now Holland was the one with the upper hand, and she knew it.

The guard led us into another corridor that ended at the foot of a winding staircase, and we followed it up to a salon that overlooked the bottom floor. He didn’t stop until we reached a door at the end of the row. It was painted pearly pink with a bouquet of wild blooms at its center.

“Someone will come for you at the first bell,” he said, letting the door swing open.

The room was bathed in pale moonlight cast through a large window. Beneath it was a bed, half of it shrouded in shadows.

West stepped inside first, and the man caught him in the chest with a hand. “This room is for her.”

“Then I’m staying here too.” West shoved past him, holding the door open for me to follow.

I looked over my shoulder to Clove. He leaned against the banister, giving me a reassuring nod. “See you in the morning.” His manner was cool, but there was an unsteady look in his eye. I wasn’t the only one who could see that Holland was the oil in a lamp, ready to catch flame.

The guard who’d dragged Zola into the dark appeared at the top of the staircase. He walked toward us with quick steps, and I studied his jacket and hands for any sign of blood. But he was crisp and clean, just like the gala and its guests below.

He took a place beside the door and West closed it behind me, stilling to listen when the latch fell into place. When footsteps faded into the distance, his shoulders relaxed. He leaned into the door, crossing his arms over his chest as he faced me.

“What the hell is going on, Fable?” he grated.