I want to fly away tonight. I don’t want to have to do any of this. But I have no wings. My only choice is to stand and face it.

We turn into the gallery of the Impressionists, close to the meeting spot, when the movement of a figure in the shadows startles me.

Standing in the corner of the near-empty gallery is my father. And he’s not alone. He’s surrounded by four other middle-aged men who look to be discussing something serious.

Oliver and I stop short at the top of the stairs, watching them.

I startle as Maxine appears behind me. She opens her mouth to say something, but I bring my fingers to my lips and gesture with my head toward the group of Sons.

My father and the other men nod, then rush off in two groups, down two different hallways, their urgency unmistakable. Are they going for the key too? My panic heightens.

Oliver, Maxine, and I walk away as quickly as we’re able without drawing attention to ourselves, and then, finally upon turning into a dark, empty corridor, we begin to sprint.

The gallery where the case is displayed is completely dark. Maxine conjures light between her hands, illuminating our way. The statues cast long shadows, giving them the effect of being alive, watching us.

The case is sitting pristine and untouched, right where we left it. We’re out of breath by the time we reach it.

Lena, Pascal, and Finn enter the gallery right after we do. “No security in the gallery to the left,” Finn confirms.

“Nor the right,” Lena says.

Finn huffs, “Though it would have been nice to investigate with the help of my date.”

Maxine rolls her eyes at him. “I am not your date.”

“Do you have another? Is it that pretty girl you abandoned me to go talk with downstairs?”

Maxine flushes red and looks to the carpet. “She is pretty, isn’t she?” she says.

“Who?” I demand.

“Anais,” Maxine answers.

That is bad news. If Anais is here, then any number of Brothers of Morte d’Arthur could be present, and we already have our hands full avoiding the Sons.

“We don’t have time to waste then.”

Maxine approaches the case, lays her hands on it, and tries the unlocking spell once more. She jerks her hands back as if she’s been burnt and curses under her breath.

Lena tries next, with more powerful spell work than we tried on the trip with Nina, conjuring a small flame between her hands and holding it to the glass. Like Maxine, she is nearly thrown backward as the glass repels the spell.

“It’s warded,” a voice comes out of the darkness. The six of us jump.

Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by moonlight, is Anais with her dark hair done up and covered with pearls. Her dark satin gown glistens, even in this low light.