With that interloping idiot. That meddlesome cur.

What gave him the right to spew such a slanderous mangling of facts?

At last, with a familiar whine, the front door swung open, prompting me to take two sharp steps to the banister, which I seized with both hands.

Alone once more, Stephanie entered the foyer, her ebony curls shining like coal in the glow of the chandelier as she shut the door softly behind her. She then drifted to stand just below the enormous light fixture . . . and me.

She held in her hands some bit of white paper, which she studied with barely subdued delight.

My grip tightened on the banister, and as she passed out of sight beneath, I resolved to speak with her again.

Tonight.

SEVENTEEN

Stephanie

“What were you thinking inviting him here?” asked a voice, his voice. “All things considered, that was quite possibly the worst thing you could have done.”

Encased on all sides by pure nothingness, I spun in place, searching the void for the source of the admonishment.

“Where are you?” I asked the darkness.

“Here,” came the same accented voice from behind me, and, whirling, I suddenly found myself facing him. He stood just a few feet away from me, even more beautiful than I remembered, one hand perched on the hilt of his rapier. He had on the same dark slacks, gray waistcoat, and black riding boots as last time. Now, though, he wore an ebony cloak. His black chin-length hair stirred in a breeze I didn’t feel.

“Where . . . where are we?” I asked next. This had to be another dream.

“If you’ll permit me,” he said as, with an absent wave of his hand, the blackness encircling us began to morph, filling in with the details of a stately room.

A lavish parlor, complete with pocket doors and a shining parquet floor, unfurled into being, the details devouring the nothing the way flame consumes paper. I gaped at him and then the parlor, which I recognized as ours. Except not the current version with its cracks, missing plaster, and dust. Instead, a far grander version of the room surrounded us, complete with a working fireplace accented by the same bird-painted tiles my father had mentioned at dinner.

I crossed to examine both the tiles and, positioned just above the crackling flames, the antlered figurehead of the stag my father had also described. Above the deer, on the mantel, ticked a small clock. One that marked the time as just after midnight. Which, if it was accurate, meant I must have only just fallen asleep.

“Please,” Erik said, “if you would take a seat. There’s tea if you like.”

I spun from the fireplace to note the sudden existence of a coffee table set with a beautiful silver tray. A filigreed teapot and matching cups kept company with a spread of pastel pastries and delicate finger sandwiches.