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“You are flirting with arithmetic,” Alcott shouts and I bite back a laugh and keep moving. Color flashes around me, from aqua stained-glass lamps, green wallpaper, a set of gold-framed mirrors and a bowl of oranges abandoned on a sideboard, bright as captured suns. The world feels impossibly alive and so do I.

I pass through a drawing room, then another corridor, then a conservatory where pale morning light pours over ferns and lemon trees. For one tempting moment, I consider hiding there. Too obvious though, Edward would look there. Edward knows I like places with exits and corners. Edward knows too much and that thought sends a thrill through me.

“Twenty,” Lazarus calls. Damn.

I turn sharply and find a narrower hallway at the back of the house. The walls here are less polished, the floorboards older. A forgotten wing, perhaps. Less used. Dust gathers along the molding. The air smells faintly of cedar and old fabric. Perfect.

“Twenty-four.”

I open the first door, a bloody linen closet. Too small.

Second door. Storage, not helpful.

Third. A dressing room stripped of furniture except for a cracked mirror and a tall wardrobe built directly into the wall.

“Twenty-eight.”

I rush inside and close the door behind me. Darkness folds over me and my breath comes too quickly. I press one hand over my mouth and listen.

“Thirty,” Lazarus muffled voice calls.

Silence falls. Then, from somewhere below, Lazarus’s voice shifts into a growl, “ready or not, darling.”

A pause.

“Your monsters are coming.”

My skin warms, as heat coils in my lower abdomen. The hairs on the back of my nape stand up in excitement and I should not enjoy this.

But I absolutely enjoy this.

I hear footsteps move through the distant hallways. Slowly at first, then they separate like a pack of wolves. Leaning back against the wardrobe wall, I smile despite myself. Fools. All three of them, my beautiful, maddening fools. I am safe here, the room is tucked away, built into the wall, a door half-hidden behind a torn curtain. They will search the obvious places first; The balcony, library, the conservatory, then the little alcoves where women in novels hide when they wish to be discovered.

Not here. Not—

A breath warms my ear as an animalistic growl caresses the skin. Then words, “hello, darling.”

I go still. Every drop of blood in my body turns to fire, as a hand slides over my mouth before I can make a sound. Not hard, nor cruel, but familiar. Gloved fingers. Alcott.

His playful voice dances across my ear in the darkness. “You chose well.”

The wardrobe shifts behind me and another body moves. Broader, much warmer as Edward’s voice follows, low and unbearably smug, “I told you I knew where she would retreat to.”

My heart stops. Then restarts incorrectly.

“I know my girl.” His words strike something deep and reckless inside me.

My girl. Not as a claim against my will, but as recognition. A certainty, as though he has spent years learning the corners of my mind and has finally decided to stop pretending otherwise. Alcott removes his hand from my mouth. I turn my head as much as the cramped space allows.

“You cheated,” I whisper.

Edward’s grin is visible even in the dark. “Strategized and perfectly predicted.”

“You knew to come here before the count began,” I claim.

“Preparedness is not cheating.”

“It is absolutely cheating.”