And so I had spent that entire night in the attic pacing—and contemplating—which doorway to step beyond.

It was true I could have bided my time indefinitely. But then, there really was no way to hide in perpetuity from oneself. And the longer I waited, the rasher, the harsher, the more restless the masks would grow. Never mind the fact that now both the girls would surely see me if I remained on their side. Perhaps I had even disturbed their sleep with my restless footsteps. What I did not need at this juncture was to give Stephanie cause—any more than I already had—to throw Erik’s cautioning to the wind and seek further assistance from that camera-toting half-wit. Doubtless, his bungling would trip the final wire upon which we all now balanced.

There was also the little matter of my current mask. Already, Languor had failed me in more ways than I wished to tally. He would need to go. There was only one mask I could think of, though, whose influence would not guarantee more bedlam. Whose strength, too, might be enough to defend us from the others—from Wrath.

If I was lucky, if Stephanie was, he still dwelled where last I had left him.

Finally obtaining a grasp on myself, I descended from the attic and exited the house by way of the back door. From there, I strode with purpose down the dawn-lit pathway of Stephanie’s world to the devastated conservatory. There, I passed through the ramshackle door of the broken glass house into the pristine but night-darkened interior of my own.

Once, long ago, the conservatory had overflowed with life. Ferns, hostas, and lilies, along with any number of other flora, had spilled from the glass doors and pivot windows.

Thanks to Myriam, during the spring and summer, roses had bloomed here in excess, their resplendence outshining lesser blooms.

This spot had been a favorite for teatime with my mother’s acquaintances. And how often had she herself sought the companionship of the blooms in order to conduct her sketching and knitting?

Only shriveled and dried blossoms remained on the vines now, their papery, freeze-dried heads held hostage by the yellowed and thorny cages of their own petrified vines.

If there was one feature I missed in my wintry Moldavia, it was the roses. But nothing here lived. Nothing save for the moths. And, perhaps, the memories tied to this glass house.

Happiness had dwelled in the conservatory once.

Now the ghost of that happiness was all that remained within its boundaries.

Of all my masks, I knew of only one who could withstand the painful recollections that haunted this place.

Against all expectation, I found him here. He stood with his back to me, a silhouette facing the windows, his gloved hands clasped behind him.

“So,” I said in a whisper. “After all this time, you are still here.”

Unlike Wrath, I had neither seen nor heard from him in decades. It must have been at least that long since I had entered this conservatory.