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Galvin looks like he wants to light the room on fire. Lonan rests the tip of his sword on the planks of the floor and folds his hands on the hilt. “Well,” he says, looking down his nose at Galvin. “How your schemes have backfired, eh?”

“Do not speak to me, treacherous wretch,” Galvin seethes.

Lonan holds a hand to his chest in false offense. “Traitor to the noble throne of Gault? Me?” And then his smile turns savage. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Pop?” Hugo’s voice interrupts. He’s looking at Poppy with heartbreaking earnestness. “Are you all right?”

Poppy doesn’t look at him, though. Her gaze is focused on the floor while she breathes deeply. She’s experiencing the same hunger I am. Suddenly I am very grateful that the floor has us trapped in place.

“How are we meant to get free?” Ollinde asks, eyeing the room with skepticism. “False in one thing, false in everything,” they translate the words around the ceiling. “A test of honesty?”

Of course. The Dark hides. The Light reveals.

My eyes drop from the letters to one of the portraits. A woman with pinched lips and gray hair ballooning ornately over her head in two large wings leers down at us . . . No, not us.

That is what is so strange about the portraits—their eyes are not facing forward. I look around the room and see that every single portrait is staring in one direction. They all focus on Ollinde.

The painting of the woman with the pinched lips and enormous hair begins to move, so slowly it’s nearly imperceptible. Her eyes widen, and then her lips part to reveal a set of jagged, fanged teeth. And then she begins to melt.

The oil paint flows and drips, distorting the portrait of the founder until the paint is flowing in a multihued waterfall down the wall. It drips onto the floor, and when it does, something emerges from the paint. At first, it looks like the fluid is bubbling, and I squint to see what’s emerging from the flow. My stomach lurches. Jaws, dozens of them, small as a rat’s mouth and baring razor-like teeth. They pop up all over the flowing paint, gnashing furiously, straining against each other, pushing other sets of teeth out of the way—all to get closer to Ollinde.

Ollinde cries out, losing balance and falling on their rear. They hurriedly push themself upright as Hugo shouts, “What the actual fuck is that?”

Ollinde panics. In a blink their skin stretches and reshapes, bones jutting in odd directions until they’re transformed into a rabbit. The Ridding seems to have accounted for their changeling abilities, however, because as soon as rabbit-Ollinde tries to jump away from the flow of teeth-filled paint, it stumbles, its legs still stuck in the floor.

I watch in horror as they transform into a fox, an owl, a mole, each time trying to wriggle away from the snapping jaws. None of it works—their body is ensnared no matter what form they take. Finally, they return to a human form. I’ve never seen them transform in quick succession like this, and it’s taken its toll. Their hair is frayed and half shorn. Their eyes have a strange droopy quality, and their skin looks as thin as onion skin. They struggle against the grip of the floorboards as the teeth flow closer.

“Truth!” Poppy shouts. She’s no longer looking at the floor. When I look at her face, she looks like the old her—calculating, solving a puzzle faster than any of us could ever hope to. What she lacked on a battlefield she has always made up for in logic and strategy. “Remember what the spirits said? Secrets will out! Lies revealed!”

“What the Saints does that mean?” Ollinde screeches, chest heaving.

A thought occurs to me. “What are you lying about?” I shout.

For a moment they look lost, helpless. I know Ollinde. I grew up with them after their mother brought her children to live at the estate with father and me. They are no saint. They have their secrets. They glance at the teeth uncertainly, and for a moment, I think they would prefer death to the honesty the trial demands. But then they speak.

“I—I was recruited,” they stammer. “I was told I had to join this cohort to protect Vesper. Van Asten told me she was important—special.”

“What?” I exclaim. Ollinde doesn’t answer, but as I glance around the room at the others, their expressions are blank. None of them look at me.

The flow of the oil paint slows. The teeth clamor angrily around the edge of it, trying to press the paint farther, but the edge of the fluid holds them back.

I feel the relief I see on Ollinde’s face.

“More,” Hugo says. “Tell it more, Ollinde.”

Ollinde curses and swallows. This time they tell their truth with their eyes shut. “Vesper annoys the shit out of me. I hate that my education, my life was stolen to protect her. Like she’s so damn important and the headmaster won’t even tell us why. I didn’t like that Mother made her move into the attic, but when Van Asten came and took her to Gossemort . . . Damn it, I was jealous. She had everything. Her father set her up to inherit that whole estate, like my family didn’t matter. He left my mother with nothing, all for his little princess. It was fucking unfair.”

Well, there is a truth. The paint slows again. But it doesn’t stop. Ollinde opens an eye to peer at it and curses again. They look up at the ceiling. “I think this whole thing—this night, these trials—it’s all fucking stupid.”

This time the paint doesn’t slow at all. It speeds toward Ollinde. Their eyes widen in panic, and they blurt, “I don’t hate her! Vesper—I . . .” Their eyes meet mine. “I hate that my mother married your father. I hate that my life has revolved around you and your specialness. I hate how Lonan fawns over you, how easy it is for you to make friends . . . but I don’t hate you. I like your stupid laugh when you snort and how little you care for pretense. You’re a pretty damn good fighter too. In fact, there are far worse people . . . and few better ones. I just wish . . . I wish my life was my own. And because you’re special, sometimes I wish I’d never met you.”

My shoulders sag. Ollinde looks away from me as the teeth drown in the liquid and the paint vanishes into the floorboards. The floor pushes them up and out of its trap. They’re free.

Ollinde swallows and looks down. “Sorry,” they murmur.

I shake my head, unable to form an adequate response at the moment. But the Ridding gives us no respite. I glance up at the paintings, and without any of us seeing, the direction of their eyes has shifted again. This time, their attention is focused on Hugo.

He looks around him. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”