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I wish I had the West’s ability to see into the future. Then I would know which direction to take.

“There’s so much to consider…” I trail off and the others pick up the conversation for me, suggesting plans and strategies, arguing lightly with one another.

Still, Tin watches me.

He doesn’t come right out and say it, but I know he can sense when my thoughts have strayed to his brother.

I can’t look at him when I’m thinking of Rook, so I shift my gaze to the windows and to the dark cloud pockmarked with portals of sunlight.

What I know to be true is this: I am waiting for Rook.

Waiting for him to call for me.

And when he does, I will be there.

EPILOGUECleo

It doesn’t take Cleo long to learn that Glinda has a temper not unlike Delphine’s. One minute she is sweet and docile, the next raging against perceived indifferences.

Thankfully none of her flare-ups are directed at Cleo and Cleo is free to wander the South Manor, its gardens, and its land.

She has never had so much free time in her entire life and it almost feels like a death shroud dragging her down.

She decides to make use of herself and dusts for a while, then checks the soil of the indoor potted plants, making herself a mental calendar of when to check them next.

Glinda has more staff than Delphine, but it’s still minimal and she finds a few plants that are bone dry, so clearly someone is slipping.

The South Manor is a four-story structure, with the lowest level underground, housing the staff, the kitchens, and the store rooms. The next two levels are for Glinda and now Cleo, with Cleo’s room in the west wing facing the poppy garden.

The fourth and highest floor is an attic that spans the entire length of the house, with pitched ceilings, creaky floors, and enough treasures to keep a person busy for years.

There is a layer of dust on everything so thick, Cleo thinks she can count the years since anything has been touched, like the rings of a tree.

Ten years? Maybe more?

She opens a chest nearest the door and finds dresses stuffed inside. They’re the size of a four-year-old with moth holes in the fabric.

The next crate reveals old leather books, the spines torn, the pages crumpled.

Cleo explores for most of the day, and the next, and the next.

Glinda’s frustration mounts as the days wear on and Cleo keeps her distance, disappearing just after breakfast and reappearing just before dinner.

On the day the Wizard leaves Gabriel’s body, the house shakes with Glinda’s grief.

Cleo stays the night in the attic and the next morning, when she wakes in a pile of old quilts, something in the opposite corner catches her eye.

A painting.

Its frame is gilded, but there are pry marks in the wood as if someone took a hammer to it, peeling it back from its fittings on whatever wall it hung on.

There’s a dust cloth hanging over most of it, but from a distance, Cleo can just make out a little girl with straight black hair and wide, round eyes.

Something in her rings out in alarm.

She tosses the threadbare quilt aside and tiptoes across the creaky wood.

When she pulls back the cloth, dust puffs up and Cleo waves it away, coughing.