“So, what’s the point—to identify a date?”
We all look at each other.
Then, Jude and Twig pull out their phones.
Jude opens an app called SkyView.
He enters information, deletes and re-enters for what feels like a torturous amount of time.
Finally, he goes very, very still.
“What?” I say, my heart thudding in my ears.
“The last time Mars was positioned in the middle of Taurus’s horns in tandem with Jupiter passing through Gemini was in April.” He looks up, his eyes alight with implication. “Of 1995.”
My skin erupts in goosebumps.
In April of 1995, the Vandenberg family vanished without a trace.
Turns out,Bûche de Noëlis a Yule log made of chocolate sponge and chestnut filling. It’s servedalongside a traditional Christmas pudding, which isn’t anything like the pudding cups my dad used to pack in my lunch box. This is a dark, steaming dome of fruit, spice, and booze. Delicious, probably. If I wasn’t too distracted to taste it.
I go through the motions, eating the food on my plate. But every tastebud is overpowered by the intense buzzing in my head. What is Vorat up to? According to every story of old, according to Mistress Bramble herself, he is a creature of insatiable appetite. He wants to feed. This is his motivation. So why are Lainey and Griffin marked with constellations that point back to the Vandenberg disappearance? And how did Lily draw him before she was sucked up by the curse and attacked by one of his hellhounds? My thoughts turn to the missing clock in the display case. I saw it when the pearl ignited. Rafe thinks it’s being sold on eBay, but something tells me he’s full of bologna.
Somehow, all of this is connected.
Across from me, Sterling has grown suspicious—his sullen demeanor replaced by wary contemplation. He studies us as keenly as Rafe. I can hardly blame him. The “puzzle” pointed straight to the cold case that left this estate in infamy. A cold case that is being tied to the disappearances happening today, even if Mayor Ridley thinks the connection is preposterous.
The party fizzles after dessert.
The Calloways have a full day of family tomorrow.
So do the Kapoors.
Camilla Bogaard has a headache.
Dad is eager to get out of his tie.
I stay and promise not to be long. Jude will walk me home. When all the guests have cleared at last, we make our way to the library.
“Our special editions and signed copies are set apart,” he says, striding toward the far balcony. Tucked beneath its shadow is a narrow alcove filled with leather-bound volumes, their spines gleaming with gilt lettering and tiny embossed family crests.
With a fluttering heart, I scan the shelves and spot the title.
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
My fluttering heart begins to pound.
I slide the novel off the shelf and run my hand over the cover. It’s bound in deep green leather. As carefully as can be, I open the book. With my breath caught in my throat, I flip through the pages—thick and cream-colored, the edges brushed in dull gold—and when a folded piece of paper falls free, I gasp.
Jude and I look at one another, equally stunned.
He picks up the paper and hands it to me.
I unfold it with trembling fingers.
The tear-stained letter is written in a familiar hand.
My mother’s hand.
