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The painting behind him is of an ancient- looking woman. Her deep sepia skin is carved with wrinkles, a black head covering circling her head. Her aged eyes widen. Her mouth opens in a sneer to reveal yellowed, pointed teeth. And then the painting melts.

A slew of expletives fall from Hugo’s mouth as the stream hits the floor and dozens of gnashing, furious jaws speed toward him.

“It’s testing us one by one. It’s forcing us to reveal secrets to each other,” I shout at Hugo.

“Why just the seven of us?” Lonan asks. “Where are the other students?”

“He killed some of them.” I nod toward Galvin. “Do you have a pile of bodies hidden somewhere, bloodmate?”

“I didn’t slaughter an entire school if that’s what you mean,” Galvin says. “I’m not wasteful.”

“Of course not,” I bite back. “You’re no monster.”

“Excuse me,” Hugo interrupts as the teeth draw closer, inches away from the hem of his dress pants. “But help!”

“Secrets,” Poppy urges. “Come on, Hugo.”

Hugo raises his hands like someone has an arrow pointed at his head. “I dunno! You lot already know everything. Um . . . once Vesper and I spiked the Hallows Eve punch with whisky. And we stole Lonan’s captain’s pin and pinned it to that tapestry of the pigs.”

Lonan’s head whips in my direction. “I knew that was you.”

“It’s not slowing down!” Hugo says frantically.

“What else?” I urge him.

Hugo closes his eyes. “I don’t know! I . . . I pretend to be excited for winter holidays, but the truth is I miss everyone too much. And . . . fuck, I love you, Poppy. I’ve been a damned coward about it. And sometimes I’m worried I’m not serious enough to have all of your respect or to even be at this damn school. And . . . Saints, I don’t want to go to fucking war. I think it’s a stupid, worthless way for the best people I know to die, and I hate it. I fucking hate it, and the Eldership and the king can eat shit for all I care.”

He opens one eye hesitantly. The paint halts its path. And then the teeth sink beneath the fluid as the paint seeps into the floorboards and disappears. The floor rises around him and releases him from its hold. Hugo exhales deeply and doubles over, resting his hands on his knees. He wipes a hand over his face and says something exceptionally foul, even for him.

“You love me?”

Hugo looks up at Poppy, who is standing ramrod straight, her large blue eyes wide.

He shrugs. “Well . . . yeah. I do. Sort of thought I was being obvious about it.”

Poppy opens her mouth, but before she can respond, I look up to see that the eyes of the remaining portraits have shifted a new direction. This time—curse the Saints—they land on me.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Iturn to look behind me, my feet still trapped in the floor of this terrible room. The portrait to my back is a man around my godfather’s age. He looks a little like my godfather too. White hair speckled with black, combed back from an austere, handsome face. His high collar and lavish suit cut across hollowed cheekbones as he glares down on me.

His mouth opens. Fangs sharp as knives appear. And my stomach sinks as the paint begins to trail over the frame, dripping onto the floor, flowing down the wall. Those little teeth pop from the surface, tiny jaws littering the pool of paint as they bite and shove against each other to get closer to me. The paint flows across the floor in a swirl of burnt umber and ocher and viridian green.

I cannot breathe.

“Vesper!” Lonan shouts. And I whirl toward him, like his voice is a siren’s call.

There’s no mistaking the fear in his expression, but he holds my gaze steady. “Secrets. You can do this.”

Secrets. I swallow, feeling my chest tighten. The temptation is toward the Dark, toward obfuscating the truth. The spirits of Gossemort want the truth? Fine. I’ll give it.

“I’m a Dark meiga,” I say, meeting the eyes of my friends—those who know, and those who don’t. “My godfather has been training Lonan and me to use the Dark for years. I write cursed poetry, and it hurts people. It . . . it kills people. My godfather tells me it’s for Gault, and . . . Saints, I want to believe him. But sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes I question.”

Hugo’s jaw drops. Orla and Ollinde glance toward each other.

“Vesper,” Poppy whispers, and there’s so much in her tone—heartbreak and betrayal and empathy even now. She’s better than I deserve.

The paint at my feet slows, but barely. Those tiny teeth are creeping closer to the hem of my dress.