The heat of Jude’s stare intensifies.
I take a forced sip of sparkling water.
Rafe is dressed in an aesthetic as elegantly gothic as the manor—black tailored trousers, a matching dress shirt, and a burgundy suit coat with black velvet lapels. He greets Cosette with a kiss on the back of her hand.
Tension snaps across Henry’s expression.
If I had to guess, it has something to do with the nasty little lie Rafe told Cosette at the masquerade ball—he ran into Henry in Elkins having lunch with his secretary. Rafe made it sound like such an innocent, passing comment, when really, it was a calculated part of his agenda. Stir up drama. Provoke emotion. I can still picture the couple arguing in an alcove afterward.
The only guests still missing are the Bogaards—Ignatius, Camilla, and their pampered son, Sterling, who is fair-skinned and pale-haired with a pointy nose like a rat. He’s a classmate. Or rather,wasa classmate. He’s one of several who hasn’t been to school as of late. Jude invited Harper, too. But Harper spends Christmas Eve at her aunt’s celebrating with her very large family.
As the servers make another lap, Naomi andTwig join me just inside the drawing room’s entrance.
“This is an interesting crowd,” Naomi says.
“Tell me about it,” I reply.
Twig licks his thumb. “Food’s good though. You should try the little pancake things with the fish on it.”
Naomi smiles softly. “It’s called blini.”
“Listen,” I whisper. “I need to check on something before the Bogaards arrive and we’re all ushered into the dining hall.” I hand Naomi my drink and give both of their elbows a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Naomi hisses.
I slip away without answering and hurry to the library.
My footsteps echo as I enter the cavernous room and approach the desk located at the far end, set between twin spiral staircases. There’s a ledger on top of it with a handwritten index inside—the Vandenberg book catalog, organized by genre. The binding crackles as I pull it open. I flip to classic literature, which includes a list of books that span several pages. They are alphabetized according to the author’s last name. The one I’m looking for is near the end.
Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891, Balcony E. Sect IV.
The east balcony, opposite the family archives.
I march to the spiral staircase to my right as an echoing knock sounds on the front door.
The Bogaards have arrived, which means I don’t have much time.
I climb the stairs and flip on a light.
Each shelf has a small brass plaque.
Sect I.
Sect II.
Sect III.
And…
“Section four,” I whisper.
I run my finger along the spines as I scan the titles.
“C’mon,” I mutter. “Where are you?”
My urgency grows. And so, too, does my anticipation. I feel like I’m standing on the cusp of discovery. My mother didn’t just come into the library five years ago to sit for an hour. If she was seeking closure, if she wanted to say goodbye, she would have written a letter. And if she were going to leave that letter somewhere, wouldn’t she have left it in the book that represented Simon? I keep searching, and just as I start to worry that the book has been misplaced, I spot it besideDr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Standing on tiptoe, I slide it off the shelf, andwith a trembling breath, I pull it open, fully expecting something to fall free.
