Angry, exhausted, and ready to be finished, I reached for the iron doorknob. I withdrew my hand with a cry of pain and surprise. A shock had stung my fingers through the holes in my lace glove. Shaking my hand to dislodge the lingering pins and needles, I stepped aside and let Mary try her luck with her far more practical leather gloves.

The doorknob turned.

The door opened.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

Chapter Seven: I Sung of Chaos and Eternal Night

I THREW MY ARM out, blocking Justine and Mary from entering Victor’s building. “It could be dangerous. Stay here.”

The scent of old blood was strong here, too. There was something else, though. Something rotten. I gagged, putting my hand over my nose and mouth.

The entry—if it could be called such—was filled with scattered and torn pages of books. Mary’s eyes lingered there. Mine were fixed on the door ahead of us. A ladder traversed the wall to a trapdoor that led to the upper story. A door to our side listed open to reveal a dirty washroom. The only illumination was the rain-dampened daylight lingering at the door with us, as unwilling to enter as we were.

“If it might be dangerous, we should stick together.” Mary leaned down to look at the pages on the floor.

I crouched low and picked up the exterior of the book that had been so violently destroyed. I knew this book. It was the alchemical philosophy Victor had lost himself in during our holiday at the baths. And I knew Victor. I was not worried for Mary and Justine’s safety.

I was worried for his.

“What is that?” I pointed outside. “Has the man climbed out of the river already? He needs help!” Justine and Mary rushed out the door.

I slammed and locked it.

—

“Stay here,” I told Henry. He was not suited to whatever would need to be done. Because I knew that scream—it had been little Ernest. Whom we had left downstairs alone with Victor while the nursemaid was asleep and the adults traveled to town. We were trapped by rain and boredom in this holiday cottage. I had gone upstairs with Henry out of perverse curiosity. Out of a desire for something exciting to happen.

Selfish, stupid.

Henry’s hands tightened in their embrace. “But—”

I shoved Henry away, ran out the door, and locked it from the outside. I practically threw myself down the stairs, burst into the sitting room, and took in the scene in one wide-eyed glance.

Ernest, howling in animal shock, holding his arm. It had been cut almost to the bone and was dripping blood onto the floor. A puddle had already formed.

Victor, sitting on his chair, staring white-faced and wide-eyed at his brother.

The knife, on the floor between them.

Victor looked up at me, his jaw clenched and his fists trembling.

I knew only two things for certain: