“I haven’t made that wish in a long time,” I say. “I don’t feel that way anymore.”

“Oh? Well, how does it feel to be the most ruthless and wealthiest man in the entire village who is running out of time?”

“You left out the fact that I’m the most attractive man as well,” I say. “It feels pretty damn good.”

“If any of these people knew who you really were, it wouldn’t.” She looks up toward the sky, cackling. “There’s a full moon tonight. Shouldn’t you be preparing to hide somewhere?”

I open a desk drawer and toss her into it. Then I stack books and folders on top before locking her inside.

Even with her laughter slightly muffled, I can hear every word she’s uttering.

Invenire puellam pulcherrimam et sapientissimam in tota terra, et si te amare contigerit, te et omne tuum genus e tenebris tuis noctes liberabo.

It’s my curse once a day for good measure, a cruel reminder that I’ve consistently failed to restore my former life: “Find the most beautiful and wisest girl in all the land, and if she should fall in love with you, I’ll free you and all your kin from your darkest nights…”

Ignoring the sudden ache in my chest, I walk over to the wall on the far end of the room and light a lamp.

Ahead of me stands a copy of every legal record in town, and I’m determined to uncover more about the woman who nearly shot me.

She definitely wouldn’t have missed.

I run my fingers across dusty spines and stop when I reach The Village Ledger: Kingdom Six.

Blowing the dust off the cover, I pluck a rose bloom and set it on top of the book.

“Show me any servants who are indentured to Isabelle Arwyn’s family, and then show me her entire bloodline. Now.”

The pages gleam and flip one after the other in slow motion, as if they’re surprised to be summoned.

They’re tempting me to return the book to the shelf, but they abruptly flip fast in reverse—stopping at page twenty-four.

Morris Arwyn m. Elizabeth Arwyn (deceased)

Isabelle “Izzie” Arwyn

There are no servants listed, and every person in the line before Izzie’s parents are deceased.

I set down the book and grab another, The Village Census.

“Show me every woman in this village who is within five years of age of Isabelle Arwyn.”

The pages in this book don’t dance or hesitate to give me what I ask for. They detach from the spine all at once and circle around me, hovering in the air.

I read the names on every sheet and recall each maiden’s face with ease. I’ve met them all before, bartered their family’s debts, or worse, been forced to sit with their fathers as they were offered to me for marriage.

“You may return to the book,” I command. “Thank you.”

They fall to the ground and organize themselves before finding their places within the spine.