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“That doesn’t mean I wanted her to die.” We pass the dining room and make a right. “I’m glad you’re all right,” Garnet adds.

“Thanks.”

This whole quartet is so strange. I know about everyone. Garnet knows about Rye but not Carnelian and vice versa. Carnelian knows about me but not Garnet and Rye.

Is this how Lucien feels all the time?

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Carnelian asks.

Garnet shrugs. “Not a clue. Mother is probably angling to use Coral’s death”—he stumbles over the word—“to some advantage or another.”

When we reach the library, Garnet spreads out onto one of the leather couches and throws an arm over his eyes. Carnelian peruses one of the shelves with Rye.

“Imogen, it’s hot in here and I forgot my fan,” she complains. “Go get it for me from my room.”

I can tell she’s enjoying her position of power.

“Yes, miss,” I say with a strained curtsy.

I turn to leave, passing the table with all the crests on it and then a family portrait of Garnet with his father and mother, when an idea occurs to me.

The Duchess said she was going to her private study. When I was first looking for Hazel, I discovered a hidden staircase that led me to a study with a photograph of the Duchess’s family in it. It was a place that felt intensely personal. What if she and the Exetor are there now?

I pretend I’m leaving the library, then make a sharp left and dart behind the shelves. Silent as a ghost, I make my way to Cadmium Blake’s Essays on Cross-Pollination and slip down the tunnel. I find the staircase and climb it quickly. Murmured voices tell me my suspicions were right.

I reach the door to the study and am shocked into stillness by a sudden burst of laughter.

“Oh, Onyx,” the Duchess says. There’s a silence, and then the unmistakable sounds of kissing.

The Duchess. Is kissing. The Exetor. I knew they were engaged once, but . . .

“I’m tired of this charade,” she says.

“I know,” the Exetor replies. “So am I.”

“Did you bring it?”

There is a rustling and then the sound of something clattering onto a tabletop. “From her personal library,” he says.

“And no one saw?”

“Not a soul. Not even Lucien. I think he believes she is behind the shooting. At least, he doesn’t suspect you or me.”

“That is excellent news.”

I’m trying to make sense of what she’s saying. The Duchess and the Exetor were the ones who planned the attack on Hazel. But why?

“It really is a beautiful piece,” the Duchess says with a sigh.

“I gave it to her for the Longest Night two years ago. Very publicly.” There is a pause. “I don’t think she appreciated it.”

“She is too pedestrian to understand it.”

The Exetor laughs. “She doesn’t have your love of history. Or your passion for fine weaponry.”

Weaponry? My heart sinks lower in my chest. What is happening here?

“It was your great-grandfather’s, wasn’t it?” the Duchess asks.