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The house doesn't laugh, but the door does creak open a little bit wider, as if admonishing me for making such a shit joke.

It's probably a good thing Lachlan didn't stay up late to hang out with me, I think as I make my way out of the library and back into the strange, fantastical, parquet-floored hallway. I can only imagine how awkward it would be to say good night to him after his little tantrum he threw.

The animals in the wood prance along in front of me, an entire host of nocturnal woodland creatures, an owl flying ahead of the whole pack, gliding on silent wings. Not that the rest of them make any noise. It makes me slightly dizzy, but it's too beautiful and strange to look away from, so I focus on following the animals without tripping over my own two feet.

We turn left and then left again, and then a huge stone-arched double door looms in front of me. The library card in my pocket grows hot once more, and the familiar weight of the huge key to Midnight House tugs on the pocket of my slacks.

"You're not gonna, like, drop me off in the desert or on the moon or something if you've decided you don't like me, right?"

I'm only half joking. I'm mostly worried.

I pull the glowing key out of my pocket, where it's uncannily warm against my skin, and shove it into the stone door's lock, it unlatches with a resonant thunk that vibrates through the soles of my shoes, and both doors open at once. The floor beneath my feet ripples as though I have stepped onto water as I make my way across the threshold into the room.

A high, vaulted stone ceiling is painted with a celestial star chart, and a long look upward shows me what must be our current season, because I could have sworn I saw that same constellation of stars just last night. It's breathtaking. The star chart shifts slowly overhead—the most minimal of movements—and I realize whatever magic's powering it must also be keeping it as current as it can with the Earth's position. The stars cast a soft golden light across the room, adding to the celestial feel.

"Too bad I never take—took—an astronomy class," I say to the wooden owl who's followed me, its big eyes blinking as it stares up at me from the flooring. "You know, I wouldn't mind some company if you can, like, come out of there and hang out. I feel kinda dumb talking to myself," I tell it.

I shouldn't have said that, because the next moment, the wooden owl peels from the parquet floor with a strange, saw-like popping sound, becoming three-dimensional as I watch. I gulp, fascinated and disturbed in equal parts by the power I'm witnessing in front of me.

"Does it come from the house," I ask, "or does it come from me?"

The owl just makes a soft hoot and flutters up to sit on top of a dark oakwood four-poster bed. Silver leaf ivy twists up the columns, and crushed velvet bedding in hues of indigo and navy and dark blue make for a fluffy and delicious-looking sleeping experience. It's a siren song, but I'm not about to crawl into that gorgeous bed and risk getting it disgusting from whatever spider families are likely still living in my bra.

My gaze travels to the massive stained-glass window overlooking the grounds of the Midnight House, and for the first time, pure curiosity at how big this place is goes through me. A mundane thought to have after all the strangeness of today, but I find myself delighted at the idea of exploring this gorgeous house. I can't quite make out what the stained-glass is portraying—the light's too low in the room, even with the warm glow of the fireplace burning in the huge stone hearth on the wall next to the door.

The opposite wall boasts another arched stone doorway, and the doors creak open as I notice it, and I nearly clap my hands with delight at the sight that meets my eyes. There's a huge black marble clawfoot tub sitting on a raised dais.

Forget the bed—that's what I want.

I walk into the bathroom without a second thought, dumping my backpack on the floor next to the door to prop it open. The last thing I want is to get trapped in here. Not that I'm scared of that necessarily—in fact, feel pretty soothed. I don't feel out of control the way I did when we first arrived, and maybe I'm just exhausted.

I walk into the bathroom, and the brass fixtures shaped like interwoven thorned vines of silver begin to run on their own, the tub filling with steamy water. It smells perfumed with lavender. An antique vanity dominates the rest of the space. Floating amber light orbs hover around a gilded, ornate mirror above it, the glass reflecting the light into the room, making the whole place feel warm and magical and comforting all at once, like I've just slipped on my favorite pair of slippers.

I open up the door to the vanity and find all manner of expensive-looking toiletries. I grab one of the bars of soap that smells faintly of oat milk and some of the small bottles of shampoo that actually have brand names I recognize from a Black Friday shopping experience where I had to put everything back because I simply couldn't afford it, and now here I have them at my fingertips.

I shake my head. If this is what a mental break feels like, maybe I should have them more often. It's that thought alone that has me doubling down on the idea that this is real. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up covered in dust and filth with some kind of massive knot on my head in the tunnels under the city and realize this was all a dream, but it's a damn good dream, I decide as I strip my clothes off and get into the tub.

I take my time scrubbing every inch of my skin, luxuriating in the heat—the perfect temperature—all while the wooden owl watches me from where it's alighted on top of the ornate mirror.

I finally get clean enough to satisfy even the most strict germaphobe, sudsing my hair within an inch of its life, not once, not twice, but three times, then letting the conditioning mask sit on top while I scrub my skin down a sixteenth time. To my delight, the bath continues to empty and fill every time, or fill it with soapy bubbles. Before long, I'm fighting sleep and realizing that if I don't get out right now, I'm gonna fall asleep in this perfect, wonderful, most delightful bathtub I have ever been in.

I opened the drain at the bottom of the tub and carefully step out onto the thick, moss-looking rug on top of the beautiful parquet floor. The owl hoots softly, then pulls a fluffy white towel off a hook by the door then carries it over to me.

"I almost feel like a Disney princess," I tell it.

It watches me carefully as I pat dry my hair and get myself as dry as I can. I finally wrap my hair up in the towel like a turban, plod over to the bed, and throw myself onto it, and burrito myself into the soft fabrics, pillows as well.

"Well, if I die tomorrow," I tell the owl, who settled next to the pillow, still blinking at me, "at least I got to have that bath."

Laughing at my morbidness, I yawn again, and the next thing I know, I'm out like a light.

Eight

LACHLAN

Ibarely sleep a wink, tossing and turning in the bed that was mine for hundreds of years and that I last slept in over a century ago. It's all been refreshed, of course, the sheets smelling clean by Vivienne triggering the house's magic. But it doesn't make a difference to the fact that despite how tired I am, despite how much my body needs rest, I cannot stop thinking of her.

How is it that fate is so cruel to have paired me with a mate? And that mate is the person I'm sworn to protect above all else?