“I didn’t say it was a room for answers.” She crossed the space between us and pulled another book off the shelf, her fingers skimming the spines familiarly until they found the one they sought.

“Brother Bartleby. He was well traveled for a monk.” She handed the book to me, then gestured around the room. “Help yourself to anything you want to read.”

I tucked the book under my arm without looking at it, my body prickling with unease. I was not going to be distracted by Brother Bartleby.

I tried another tactic.

“So, what am I doing here?” She was still close enough that I could smell the melted snow on her hair.

“The same thing I am doing here,” she said.

“And what is that?”

“I’m not a philosopher.” Her voice had the high clarity of running water, but I heard the growl beneath the music. “Neither is Bartleby. That’s why I like him.”

She turned, her eyes on the door, and I grabbed her sleeve. She froze, looking as shocked as I felt at the boldness of my actions.

“Tell me why you have brought me here.” My voice didn’t shake, and her arm was warm and human beneath my hand, but there was nothing human about her eyes.

“A rose for a rose, a thorn for a thorn.”

Cats had eyes that color. Green, hypnotic, predatory. My body tensed for flight.

“I am not a rose,” I said.

She tilted her head. “Then perhaps you are a thorn.”

My hand pulsed in a memory of pain, and I heard a distant rustle of leaves as my breath caught. I pulled my hand back, clenching my fingers tight against my palm as I tried to steady myself, but my heart beat too rapidly and the pain in my palm was sharper than the prick of the rose had ever been.

Something is wrong.

The books spun, then steadied, and I flinched as the hot wine sloshed over my shaking wrist.

“Drink,” she advised.

I did, and the wine drove back the leaves from the corners of my vision but not from my mind. “I think I need some fresh air,” I said.

She didn’t say anything, and so I stepped past her, keeping my steps to a walk until I was through the doors. Only when I was sure she was out of sight did I break into a run, flying down the stairs and through the dark corridors until I was back in the kitchen, then the empty hall, and finally the stable. The open doors at the end framed the fading light, and I stumbled to a halt in the drifts, gasping down lungfuls of cold air.

A thorn for a thorn.