When I came out, Grayson Crowne was gone. I was alone in his bedroom. Alone…for the first time since the ordeal began. A chilly, salty breeze blew through sheer curtains, feathering goose bumps along my arms.

I’d waited a good hour before I left the bathroom. I put on my clothes immediately after Grayson left, but I didn’t want to risk a Tansy interaction. I only heard bits and pieces of the conversation. Muffled words like holidays and grandfather that, honestly, could mean anything. Their grandfather always comes for the holidays, and the pomp and circumstance rivaled any real royalty.

Every Crowne came for the holidays.

Every single one.

Great-aunts, first cousins twice removed, bastards. We servants have a term for it, when all the Crownes gather—a Corrosion of Crownes. I think Christmas at Crowne Hall might be a bigger deal than at Santa’s.

I chewed my lip, standing in the middle of the room. I wasn’t someone who snooped, but with Grayson the urge was strong. Still, I wouldn’t want anyone going through my stuff, no matter the circumstance. So I sat on the couch with a view of the ocean.

And fiddled.

Now that I’d been here for a few days, I noticed the little things that I hadn’t before, his Graysonisms. Like he had an entire drawer filled with lollipops. All his pens were green, not just the one he’d had me write my secrets with.

I wondered what I would learn if I managed to stay the full two months.

My stomach growled for the umpteenth time that morning as another strong breeze blew, knocking pens and a notebook from the lollipop desk near the open window. I got off the couch to pick them up. The notebook had butterflied open, and I paused on the page. Before I could read anything, the notebook slammed shut.

I sucked in a breath, looking up into the eyes of Grayson.

“The fuck are you doing?” he growled.

“I—”

“I leave you alone for two minutes and you start snooping?”

“No—” I tried again, only to be cut off.

“Looking for something good to sell to some trash magazine?”

“I wasn’t snooping!” I finally snapped. “It fell.”

He blinked, the anger in his face disappearing into shock, settling into suspicion.

“Sure,” he scoffed, getting to his feet.

“Do you write everything in green?” I asked, standing to my own.

He paused, then tossed the notebook and pens into the desk amid the loose lollipops.

“You’re fucking nosy.”

“I’m basically captive,” I muttered. “What else do I have to do?”

A small smile broke his lips, but he quickly rolled his mouth, squashing it.

“Pablo Neruda used the color green because he said it was the color of hope,” I mused.

He paused. “And?”

“Do you like Pablo Neruda?”

Another long moment.