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My pulse stutters.

Alcott looks at his nails. “Assuming you are clever enough not to be found immediately.”

I glare at him. “I am going to poison your tea.”

“Then I shall drink coffee,” Alcott retorts.

“Your coffee too,” I challenge.

“A thorough woman. I admire that.” He winks at me, and I cannot decide whether to throw something at him or be smitten with his banter.

Edward’s gaze remains on mine. Quiet. Burning. Waiting. He says nothing, and somehow that is worse than anything the others have said. I lift my chin. “You three assume I intend to participate.”

Lazarus’s smile turns soft at the edges. “No, darling. We are hoping you will.”

That steals the irritation from my tongue. Not fully, but enough. Because there it is. The choice. Handed to me in the middle of absurdity. I look down at them. Three dangerous men gathered in a dead lord’s manor, asking me to run so they may chase; asking me to choose the shape of the game.

A laugh threatens. Not loud. Not free like the other night with Elisa. Something darker. Something delighted. Perhaps I have gone mad or perhaps I have finally found people mad enough to meet me properly. I turn away from the banister and shout, “thirty seconds?”

Lazarus’s eyes light. “Thirty.”

“No weapons,” I demand, pointing at Alcott, he sighs dramatically.

“No weapons,” I repeat, my gaze now on Edward, pointing toward him.

Edward’s expression warms, just enough to ruin me. “As you wish.”

Lazarus places one hand dramatically over his eyes. Alcott does the same, though he peeks through his fingers.

“Alcott,” Edward says.

“What? I am ensuring fairness.” He tufts.

“Close your eyes,” Edward orders.

“How tyrannical.”

Lazarus begins counting. “One.”

I gather my robe within my hands and run.

“Two.” His voice echoes and my feet fly down the corridor, past portraits and velvet benches, past doors leading to rooms I do not know. Running by windows where morning spills gold across the floor.

“Three.”

The house is enormous, not simply large, it is absolutely, bloody obscene. A maze of wealth, secrets, and poor architectural restraint. I pass a music room filled with covered instruments, a library that smells of leather and dust, a gallery lined with landscapes painted by people who clearly never met a shadow they did not wish to dramatize.

“Four.” His voice carries through the house. Low and amused.

“Five.”

I slip through a side passage and descend a narrow servants’ stair, emerging into a corridor paneled in dark wood. For a moment, I pause, listening.

Nothing.

Then Alcott’s voice echoes from somewhere far-far behind. “Six. You are counting too slowly.”

“I am building suspense,” Lazarus replies.