The garden wasn’t empty, far from it. Here and there, huddled couples braved the cold for a stolen smoke or a gossip session, faces glowing in the light spill from the house. But none of them looked like Tessa Monroe. Grace scanned the nearest paths, searching for a flash of blonde or a familiar profile. Nothing. Maybe Bryant had already found her. Maybe Tessa was inside, downing gin and spinning the story of her near-miss for any reporter who’d listen.
Grace hoped so, but she didn’t trust hope. She squared her shoulders and started down the stone steps, hands clamped tight over her bare arms. The cold made her skin prickle, the little hairs rising in defense. Her heels crunched through a crust of ice, the sound punctuating the faint Christmas music still pipedthrough outdoor speakers. Jingle Bells, from a famous singer, soft and soothing.
The further she walked, the more the noise of the party receded. Past the topiary animals and the ice sculpture of a swooping angel, the garden opened into a series of smaller, hedge-lined rooms. Lights dwindled here, only a few flickering tea candles in colored jars to mark the path. Most of the partygoers had clustered near the warmth of the house, so out here it was just Grace, the icy hush, and her own breath.
She walked the perimeter twice before she saw it. At the far end of a clipped yew corridor, perched on the crook of a snow-capped arbor, a raven watched her with one black, pinpoint eye. It was so still at first she mistook it for a decoration. But then it ruffled its wings, sending a spray of frost to the ground, and she realized: not a prop. Not even remotely.
“Great,” she muttered, voice trembling less with cold than with a sense of cosmic unfairness. “Now it’s birds.”
The raven said nothing, just tracked her with that unblinking gaze. Grace tried to skirt the arbor, cutting through a side path lined with frozen roses, but every time she glanced up, the bird had reappeared ahead of her. It must have flown, but she never caught it in motion—it simply was, suddenly and without transition.
She quickened her pace, scanning hedges and benches for any sign of Tessa. The garden grew more complicated the further she went; at every fork, she picked the path that led away from the house, trusting some instinct that if Tessa wanted to hide, she’d want distance.
A gust of wind rattled the string lights overhead, and Grace cursed herself for her lack of outerwear. Her teeth had started to chatter. She hugged herself and ducked beneath a trellis, emerging into a circle of holly bushes rimmed with red berries.The raven sat on a sundial at the center, feathers puffed, as if the entire set piece had been designed for its benefit.
Grace stopped, her breath steaming in the air. “What do you want?” she whispered.
The raven cocked its head. Its beak gleamed, too sharp for nature.
“Some people deserve to die,” it said.
Grace flinched so hard she almost slipped on the icy flagstones. For a second, she thought she’d misheard. Maybe she was so cold her brain was making up nonsense.
But the raven repeated, slower this time: “Some people. Deserve. To die.”
She backed away from the sundial. “That’s not true,” she said, not even sure who she was arguing with. “Nobody deserves to die.”
The raven watched her, silent again. She tried to retrace her steps, but the paths had shifted in the dark; what had been a straight shot back to the mansion now seemed to wind and twist, turning her around. Every time she doubled back, the raven was there, on a different perch—atop a stone cherub, a gate post, a snow-laden cypress.
It didn’t always speak, but when it did, the phrase was the same: “Some people deserve to die.”
Grace pressed on, breath coming faster. She wanted to call out for Tessa, or for Bryant, or even for Olivia, who at least had the sense to be menacing in person. But her voice seemed thin in the vast cold, lost among the hedges and the deadheaded rose canes.
She reached a clearing, a sort of amphitheater carved out by the original landscaper, and found the raven waiting in the center. It flapped its wings, feathers glossy and black, and spoke again.
“Some people. Deserve. To die.”
“Why are you saying that?” Grace shouted. The words echoed, hanging in the icy air. “Is this a threat? Are you trying to scare me?”
The bird made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like the rattle of dry bones. “Some people deserve to die. But not you, Grace Baker.”
A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Who told you my name?” she demanded, though the answer was obvious and not comforting. She took a shaky step toward the bird, fists clenched. “Are you… Are you the murderer? Are you part of it?”
It didn’t answer her question, just said, “If you can protect Tessa until after Christmas Eve at midnight, she will live.”
Grace wanted to scream. Instead, she closed her eyes, counted to three, then opened them. The raven had vanished. In its place, a swirl of black feathers tumbled across the snow, catching on the bare branches.
She let out a shaky breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and started running. The garden paths no longer seemed so confusing—she moved by memory, taking the shortest route back to the house. Her lungs burned, the satin dress clung to her legs, but she kept moving.
She reached the base of the porch steps and looked back, half-expecting to see the raven perched above, waiting for her. Instead, the gardens were empty, undisturbed except for her footprints.
Grace climbed the steps two at a time, ducked inside, and slammed the door against the cold.
She stood for a moment, catching her breath, eyes watering from the sudden warmth. The foyer was empty. The sound of the party was muffled, coming from deeper in the house, but there was no sign of Tessa.
“Damn it,” Grace muttered. She wasn’t sure if she was cursing the raven, the killer, or herself.
She started back through the house, hoping Bryant had found her, hoping Tessa was safe. But as she ran, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just shifted. That she was now part of a game she didn’t understand, with rules that could change at any moment.
