The room perched atop the tallest tower in the castle, a circular, domed chamber with a glass roof constructed by a long-dead Ancestor for observing the stars. The thin, large panes rattled slightly in the breeze and Constance felt a breath of air tickle a loose hair at her neck. And suddenly she noticed she had climbed so high that the top of the tower had erupted from the storm cloud. Tendrils of gray snatched and swirled around the lower edges of the dome, but the rest was filled with blissful clear sky. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it already. For a moment, she lost herself in the pool of blue, interrupted only by the sun’s gentle yellow on the clouded horizon.

The circular room was starkly empty. The ghosts of removed furniture were imprinted on the walls in paler shades of white: the only remaining items were an enormous chest fastened with a sturdy padlock, a narrow, neatly made bed that ill fitted its surroundings, and a single, throne-like chair in the center of the room. And there, at last, she noticed her father, already examining her with wary eyes. Gone was the expression of pure, adoring admiration from the previous evening. Instead, he appeared confused, agitated. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to the feast. Has he even slept?

“Constance,” said the Duke, peering at her. “Daughter.” And then he repeated vaguely, as if trying to jog his memory, “Constance … Daughter…”

She approached him with careful footsteps. At fifty paces across and laid with polished tiles, mirroring the umbrella-like pattern of the thin glass panes overhead, the room felt cavernous. She stopped before she reached the chair, her gaze catching on her father’s hands. They were clasped, clawlike, over burnished wooden armrests. “Good morning, Father,” she said calmly. For the first time since she’d arrived, she observed him dispassionately. She and the Duke had never been close. He’d had duties, and she’d had preoccupations, but she thought they had loved each other nonetheless—as family does. She tried not to flinch at the ravages of age and insanity on his features—features so firmly echoed in her own face. The angles of his cheekbones were sharper; his chin receded. The dark eyes looked watery and unfocused; the skin was drawn tighter over bulbous knuckles. Her father’s hair was entirely white now and coarse as wool—no trace of the ash blond, like hers, he had once prized.

There was nowhere for her to sit, so she knelt beside the chair and rested her right hand over his, shuddering at the feel of his papery skin. It was time for the truth. “Father, I need to speak with you. I need to understand what’s happening here.”

The Duke stared into the middle distance. He showed no sign of having heard her words.