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Ridiculous. I am not some abandoned maiden in a tragic poem. I am the Widow.

I have woken beside corpses with less irritation.

Still, the room feels strangely hollow without his ridiculous warmth, his dark hair, his rings, his theatrical mouth saying something absurd simply to see whether I will threaten him. My mind wanders to our activities from the night. The way he touched me, tasted me, and the pure encapsulating rapture. I cannot help but bite my lip as my torso binds in anticipation for more.

A folded note rests upon the pillow. Of course. I reach for it. The handwriting is elegant in a way that suggests Lazarus practiced looking careless.

Darling Widow,

I have a surprise for you. We shall be playing hide-and-seek.

Do try not to sulk before the game begins. It will ruin the atmosphere.

Yours in wickedness,

Laz.

I read it once. Then again. Then lower the paper.

“Hide-and-seek?” My voice sounds flat in the enormous room. Somewhere beyond the walls, the manor sits in grand silence, smug and sprawling and far too pleased with itself. This was not borrowed, I know that now. One does not borrow a house like this. One inherits it, steals it, murders for it, or hides it behind so many false names that ownership becomes a philosophical question. With Lazarus, all four possibilities feel equally likely.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rise, wrapping a silk robe around myself. The fabric is not mine. It is deep black, embroidered with little golden suns along the sleeves. His doing, no doubt. The man cannot merely provide clothing. He must provide symbolism.

I cross the room and open the door. The corridor beyond is cavernous, where dark portraits line the walls, by John William Waterhouse, Millais and Rossetti. Their characters stare as I stride past them. My bare feet sink into a runner of red-and-black patterning as I move toward the landing.

Somewhere below, a floorboard creaks. I stop. Then continue up the upper hall opening onto a balcony overlooking the main entryway. I step to the banister, prepared to call Lazarus every name that seems appropriate for dragging me from sleep into nonsense, but then I see them. All three of them. Lazarus stands at the foot of the grand staircase in yesterday’s long coat, his hair loose around his shoulders, his smile wicked enough to condemn a saint. Alcott leans against the newel post beside him, pristine and pale, looking entirely too pleased with whatever fresh disaster is unfolding and Edward.

Edward stands a few steps behind them, arms folded, mouth solemn, eyes fixed on me with such heat that my fingers tighten around the banister. My breath catches in my throat. Traitorous thing.

Lazarus spreads his arms, “good morning, darling.”

I narrow my eyes. “What have you done?”

His grin widens, “your monsters have come to play.”

Alcott’s smile sharpens. “I told him that sounded dramatic.”

“I love dramatics,” Lazarus says.

“Overly dramatic,” my irritation drips from my words.

“You wound me.” Laz pouts.

“Not yet,” I mutter. Edward’s mouth twitches, a tiny fragment, such a small thing. Barely there, but I see it.

“What game?” I ask, though the note in my hand already answers. Lazarus begins climbing the first step. Slowly, at a deliberate predator’s pace.

“We count to thirty. You hide.” He points a long finger toward me.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You hide,” he repeats. “We seek.”

Alcott tilts his head. “Quite simple, really.”

“Childish,” Edward says. Yet he does not leave. No. He watches me from beneath dark lashes, controlled and still, except for the tension in his jaw. He wants to play. The realization sends warmth through me so suddenly that I nearly hate him for it. Lazarus reaches the fifth step and stops.

“Whoever finds you first,” he says, voice echoing up toward the painted ceiling, “earns your choice of reward or theirs.”