“You know, we should be looking for our next clue,” he says, aborting his previous defense strategy—denial—and opting for the classic let’s-turn-our-attention-elsewhere tactic instead. He steps forward in as dignified a manner as possible for someone who’s just leapt back three feet. The ghosts don’t block our way, but they don’t disperse either. They simply continue haunting us as we study the setup.

Half the space has been dedicated to private rooms, each with their own flower and poetic name—at least, I’m assuming it’s poetic, based on the calligraphy and the fact that I don’t recognize a single character—printed above the carved lattice doors. The rest of the floor is taken up by round tables and silk-cushioned chairs in various colors, a few of them pushed back as though the guest had risen bare moments ago, the double-layered trays still wet with spilt tea. A folding screen has been propped up by the window, its surface overgrown with moon-white and sun-yellow chrysanthemums, their petals curling inward as if protecting a secret.

“Does it have anything to do with the flowers?” I venture. “Like, I don’t know—maybe the number of flowers is important. Maybe we should be counting them, or the petals—”

“I don’t think this is one of those he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not situations,” Cyrus says.

“I wouldn’t need to count petals to guess whether someone loves me. I’d know that they do,” I say, the haughty coolness of my tone masking the heat in my cheeks. I immediately feel stupid for making the suggestion. This is one of the reasons I stopped answering questions in any of my classes—because most of the time, I’d say something silly and irrelevant without realizing it, and I’d want to shrivel into a ball while the teacher fought to keep their expression professional. You don’t even try, the same teachers accused when it came time for feedback, but I had. I simply wasn’t very smart, not school-smart, which is the only kind of smart that seems to matter at our age.

Cyrus pauses. “Well, you’re right, it could be related to the flowers,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure if it’s a number that we’re looking for though. I haven’t seen anything in the room that would require a passcode.”

“Hey, there’s something here,” I notice, pointing to a piece of paper tucked underneath the screen.

He bends down right away and picks it up, flattening it out on the closest table so we can both read the characters scrawled over it. Or so he can read it, and I can stare at it. I’d expected it to be a message, but it looks more like a riddle: The words are listed one by one down the page.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A riddle,” Cyrus replies unhelpfully.