He wasn’t alone. She lowered herself to the ground and sat against the wall for a long time. How long should she wait? What if it took him hours to sleep? What if he’d heard her in the walls? What if he sat on the edge of his bed, even now, waiting for her?

In the spiraling darkness, the door to the Graces’ chambers called to her.

Was Angeline there? Was she okay? What about Rosario and Cassia and all the rest of the older Graces? Nomi shook her head. Once Asa was dead, those women would be free. Malachi was probably already on his way, hopefully with Dante’s regiment.

But he never promised to release the Graces.

She was sure he would. But, suddenly, she couldn’t spend one more moment hidden in the walls of the palazzo like a forgotten secret, buried alive.

She needed to breathe.

Nomi snatched up her cloak and found the panel that led to the Graces.

Slowly, holding her breath, she pulled it open. The dim light that snuck through the crack touched her face like the hand of a friend.

This time, no one walked past.

As quietly, as carefully as she could, Nomi slipped inside the hallway, silent and marble-floored, that led to the bathing room.

It was the middle of the night. The girls would be asleep. The Superior’s men would walk the halls. If she wasn’t careful, they would find her.

Nomi shut the panel, pulling it into place as quietly as she could. She made sure she could open it again, that she could remember which panel, of all the identical panels along the hall, led to the tunnels. Led to freedom.

Led back to Asa.

She was sneaking through the quiet rooms toward the hall of bedrooms, when a commotion sent her running for cover in the shadows behind a decorative urn.

“Thank you for your time, flower,” a voice, instantly recognizable, said.

Nomi heard a shuffle of feet, a quiet cry.

“I look forward to seeing more of you.” Asa wasn’t being polite. He was issuing a threat.

A whisper of fabric, and a door slammed. Then, a quiet sobbing.

Nomi peeked around the corner. On the floor next to the opulent couch in the round central room, a figure curled into a ball, her face hidden by a curtain of long silvery-blond hair.

Nomi’s gut twisted. “Cassia?”

Malachi’s third Grace lifted her head, saw Nomi, and opened her mouth to scream.

Nomi darted to Cassia and covered her mouth, hissing, “Hush, hush, it’s me.”

The girl grabbed at Nomi’s shoulders, her eyes wide and terrified. She said something against Nomi’s hand, the words muffled. Carefully, Nomi let her go, poised in case she tried to scream again.