I walk to where his driver waits across the street, dangling my silk gloves in my hands, feeling completely unchanged but also missing him already.

Maxine hurls a halved grapefruit at me as I walk through the door and into the dining room where the family, Lena, and Finn are eating breakfast. I duck to the left and the grapefruit hits the wall with a splat and then thuds to the ground.

“We thought you were dead!” she shouts.

“Mon Dieu, Maxine!” her mother shouts, and clutches her chest.

I’m so impressed by her fastball arm I’m more stunned than anything.

“I’m sorry!” I say. “I should have called. Oliver and I spent the night at his parents’ home. It was nearer to the theater and we lost track of time after a nightcap.”

It’s a believable lie. His parents do keep a home in the city. It’s still not entirely proper, but it is less ruinous than admitting to spending the night alone in his dorm room.

“I do apologize,” I go on. “I’ll go change into something more appropriate.”

At the end of the table, Finn’s crystal glass full of orange juice shatters in his hand.

He swears under his breath and holds his hand aloft. It’s already bleeding, a big cut down the center of his palm. The blood drips all the way down his arm, off his elbow and into the white tablecloth.

“My, isn’t this a morning of excitement,” Maxine’s stepfather deadpans from behind his ever-present newspaper.

Greta runs into the room with a dish towel to wrap around Finn’s wound and shepherds him into the kitchen.

One of the lady’s maids is sent to my room. She giggles as she unpins what’s left of my ruined hair.

“Toute en nuit, eh?” She blushes.

I don’t understand, so I smile back at her in the mirror as innocently as I am able and nod.

We haven’t made any progress with the key and I refuse to wait at another dead end, so Wednesday, I walk to my father’s office.

My magic has barely more than flickered since the night in the catacombs. There have been no more bodies, but each morning I scan the newspaper with panic in my fingers and guilt heavy on my heart.

My father is sitting at his desk, looking as disheveled and startled to see me as ever, despite the fact that this meeting was prearranged.

“Ah! It’s you!” he exclaims as I walk through the door.

I sink down into the hardwood chair across from his desk, teetering so high with stacks of paper, I fear we may end up buried under them.

“I am looking forward to our discussion. You’ll have to excuse the mess,” he says.

I nearly tell him that I’ve never seen his office look less messy than this, but I keep my mouth shut.