I looked away, letting my gaze sweep across the office for the second time. Shelves climbed the walls like ivy, packed, not only with books, but with statues—most likely more of Lilian’s work. Stone heads stared back, some screaming, some weeping with tears the size of pearls streaking down their cheeks. Others wore frozen expressions that made my skin itch. A few were crowned with broken antlers, and some had snakes curling through their hair like Medusa had.
The room smelled like aged paper, dust, and something sharp beneath it—like metal left too long in the rain—all covered with the sweetness of Lilian’s perfume. An enormous leather chair sat alone between a stained-glass window and a cluttered desk carved so dark it seemed to swallow the light around it.
“So,” I said, my voice cutting. “You broke in here.”
Preston traced a finger lazily along a shelf, then wiped the dust onto his crisp white shirt.
“I opened it with a key, didn’t I?” he replied.
“With a stolen key,” I pointed out, crossing the room to the desk with claw-shaped feet. It reminded me of a bear hibernating.
“Rich from the girl who I caught, mid-break in, the day she arrived.”
I held my tongue, my skin prickling with annoyance as he followed. His scent—earthy, sweet—lingered too close behind me, sharp against the dust of the room.
“I found it here.” He opened one of the many drawers. The material of his sleeve brushed against my arm, and I pulled away instinctively, heat creeping up my cheeks. Luckily, he didn’t notice; instead, he lifted a stack of papers and scattered them across the worn floorboards.
We both knelt, but I made sure to keep a comfortable space between us.
“These are adoption papers,” I said, skimming through them.
Not one. Not three. Dozens.
Preston leaned in. “They’re not ours.” He held up a sheet, his brows furrowing. “These go back eighteen years.”
I frowned. Eighteen years? I read the names—Charlotte. Oliver. Bennett. Daisy. The list went on and on.
“This is at least fifty children,” Preston muttered. “That means?—”
“Around three a year,” I finished, biting the inside of my lip. “Is this even legal? Adopting these many kids?”
And more importantly—where were they now?
Preston shrugged and stood, brushing off his hands. “Well, I’m not a lawyer,” he said, his tone clipped.
“And here I was thinking you were,” I muttered under my breath.
But then I remembered, I knew someone who was.
Cornelius Sterling.
I opened my mouth, the name rising to the surface, but before I could speak it, a folded paper slid from the pile and landed on my boots.
I blinked. Its edges curled, the crimson seal at its centre already broken. There was no name on it, but it must have been sent to Lilian. I picked it up and carefully opened it, the parchment soft, almost velvety. The ink that marked it ran deep red, curling across the page like blood in snow.
I flipped it over, but there was nothing else written on it. No date. No return address. Just the signature, ornate and looping like a snake curling in on itself.
V.M.
Preston leaned closer, and my shoulders tensed. “V.M.?”
I glared up at him. “Does it mean anything to you?”
His eyes stayed fixed on the page, like he was trying to coax something out of the ink itself. “Vincent Marzouq,” he said at last, the name falling slow from his lips.
My brow creased. The name rang familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Related to Declan by any chance?”
“His father.” Preston’s tone was flat, and something about the way he said it made the air feel colder in the room.
