I jerk upright in bed.
My phone is buzzing.
Jude has sent a message.
He’s on the road. Headed to Athens, chasing a solution I’m not sure exists. If it did, surely Ezrawould have found it. But Ezra didn’t find a way to destroy Seraphina. He only found a way to lock her up.
Now Jude wants to let her out.
I shiver.
Cold has become a merciless, inescapable companion.
I draw my comforter around me and step out into the hallway. It’s quiet. Dad’s bedroom door is ajar. He must already be out mowing the paddock or clearing the stables. I wonder if he’s found the old carriage yet, and the pair of initials carved inside a heart. One of them belonged to his wife, who was here thirty years ago.
A kid in foster care, sent to Foggy Hollow. Drawn to Simon Vandenberg with no idea that Simon’s great-great-great something grandfather had painted the daughter she would one day have.
Simon fell in love.
The curse was triggered.
Tragedy struck.
My mother was sent away.
But the demons went with her.
She had me.
She left me.
And because she left, we came here.
Was it all meant to be? Was this moment, right now, written in the stars? Or could she have stayed? And if she had stayed, would we still be in Ohio? What about Jude? What about Rafe? Whatabout the gemstones and the portrait and the curse?
I kneel on the floor, pull the portrait out from under my bed, and stare at the locket in the painting. It drew him to his wife and led to the birth of his son. He hid the locket inside a jewelry box, inside a coffin, inside a crypt. Marked by coordinates inside a compass, inside a Bible.
Clues inside of clues, like Russian nesting dolls.
Maybe this is why I’m so convinced there must be something inside the locket, too.
Ezra dreamt about it. In his dreams, Seraphina wore the locket as she murdered Molly. So why did he paint it aroundmyneck? Because he dreamt of me, too? And what of the words scrawled on a fragment of parchment in Maggie’s office? Surely, if there was a revelation and he thought I might be its fulfillment, he would have kept careful track of that revelation.
I narrow my eyes.
Clues within clues.
I run my hands along the frame, feeling for a hidden latch. A secret compartment. There’s nothing. I pick the portrait up, turn it over, and set it on my bed. On the backside, muslin has been nailed in place. I smooth my hand over the aged cotton, much softer than the flaxen weave of the canvas. They are two different things, with a small space between them.
Clues within clues.
With a jump of adrenaline, I search for an opening. There’s not even a loose thread to pick. My eye catches on the tome set upon my bedside table, with its busted lock.
Five minutes later, I’m back with a razor blade.
As carefully as possible, I cut near the frame’s edge. I work the blade along the stretcher, and the fabric starts to give—slowly, painstakingly, until finally, the muslin is gone. And there, hidden against the raw back of the canvas, are words.
With my heart in my throat, I begin to read.
