“I hope you’re right.” I sigh.

  “And now—” Braxton plants a single kiss on the top of my head. “I need to finish up. Can I see you to the door?”

  It’s the equivalent of ending a phone call with I should let you go. But I’m not offended. “No worries,” I tell him. “I’ll show myself out.”

  Braxton heads inside his bathroom as I make for the bedroom, where I find my shoes lying at the foot of the bed.

  After slipping them on, I’m about to leave when I notice a small stack of leather-bound first editions piled on the table next to the door.

  I study the one at the top, Jane Eyre. Then I smile to myself, taking it as further proof of just how much of an old-school romantic Braxton really is.

  I trace a finger over the cover, then flip the book open to find it’s been signed by Charlotte Brontë herself, with a personalized note for Braxton.

  For Braxton,

  Your will shall decide your destiny.

  C.B.

  My vision begins to blur.

  My hand to shake.

  Next thing I know, the book tumbles from my fingers, but I’m able to catch it and return it to the top of the stack.

  Then I race out the door, my mind haunted by a memory of another leather-bound book I once saw. A memory so vivid, I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it until now.

  There are so many secrets contained in these walls, and it’s time to start getting some answers to my long list of questions.

  Chief among them: What the hell is really going on in this place, and exactly how does it connect to my dad?

  6

  A thrum of anticipation beats through me as I round the corner that leads to my hall. And though the hallway is empty, and I’m tempted to run, running through halls isn’t done here at Gray Wolf, and the last thing I need is to draw any unwanted attention to myself.

  Ever since my first day here, I’ve had the uncanny feeling that I’m being observed. And though no one seems willing to confirm my suspicion, they’re not exactly denying it, either.

  When I reach my door, I’m surprised to find Freya vacating Song’s room. Sunday is the one day of the week the cleaning crew gets a break.

  “Is she back?” I ask, unable to think of any other reason for why Freya would be there.

  Freya turns, her coppery curls springing free of her bun, her flashing green eyes landing on mine. “Excuse me?” she says, speaking with an accent I can never quite place.

  “Song,” I say. “Is she back?”

  A glint of comprehension darkens her gaze. A moment later, she’s shaking her head. “I was sent to clear the room and make it like new,” she says, unaware of the full impact of her words. The way they leave me gutted, mentally kicking myself for acting too late.

  I should’ve checked before, but I got so caught up in my studies that—

  “And her things?” I ask, hoping it’s not too late, though suspecting it is. “What did you do with all her belongings?”

  Freya shoots me a quizzical look. “Belongings? I am not sure she had any.” Her eyes narrow on mine, and I realize she’s right. All the fancy clothes, jewels, and art are merely on loan until we’re…no longer here.

  I imagine how the room must look now. The walls, once decorated with carefully curated pieces of modern art, now blank. The shelves empty. The space that was once so unique to Song, now returned to how my own room looked when I first arrived on this rock. Clean. Pristine. Luxurious beyond measure. And as anonymous as any five-star hotel suite.

  A sort of blank canvas, ready for the next occupant to make their own mark.

  But like all canvas, it takes only a fresh coat of primer to erase everything that existed before.

  But what about that leather-bound book that I saw? Where did that go?

  It’s not until Freya clears her throat, pulling me out of my reverie, that I notice the impatient tilt of her head, the way her fingers grasp at her cart. Clearly, she’s eager to go. But I can’t let her leave. Not yet, anyway.

  “Do you think I could…have a look around?” I nod toward the purple door.

  Freya sighs, long and deep. “Natasha,” she says. “You are always so…” She screws up her face, eyes squinted, nose crinkled as though searching for just the right word.

  I squirm under the glare of her scrutiny, thinking of all the ways she could fill in that blank. You are always so: Nice. Friendly. Good-natured. Annoying. Aggravating. Infuriating. Exasperating. Vexing—

  “No-nonsense,” she says with a brisk dip of her head. “And while I appreciate that, I am very busy, so—”

  “I’m looking for a book,” I say, my voice hurried. “An old, leather-bound—”

  Just then, a voice calls out from the end of the hall, and I look up to see another member of the cleaning staff.

  “Freya?” he says. “They need us on the fourth floor.”

  Freya looks his way and holds up a hand. When she returns to me, her gaze is shrewder than I’ve ever seen. “We are finished here, yes?” She looks at me in a way that makes it clear it’s not really a question.

  “Of course,” I mumble, watching her go.

  As she makes her way down the hall, I notice how the tune she’s humming is not from this century. It’s not even from the last century. The song is much older than that. And for one fleeting moment, I have the wildest thought:

  Is it possible the people who work here at Gray Wolf—the maids, the kitchen crew, pretty much all the support staff—might not actually be from this time?

  Much like Arthur tasked me with finding Killian and bringing him back to Gray Wolf, did someone whisk Freya away from her own timeline?

  And then another thought quickly follows—one that sends an ominous fluttering deep in my belly.

  And if so, then is it also possible that disappearing works both ways?

  7

  First thing I do when I enter my room is kick off my heels.

  Second thing I do is head for the shower. And as I pass by my vanity, I notice a curious dark blue box with two intertwined snakes imprinted on the lid and the words Niki de Saint Phalle Parfum written beneath.

  My gaze holds on those serpents. Something about that image sets my pulse drumming, as though my body has already processed something my brain is still sorting out.

  Not only is Niki de Saint Phalle one of my favorite contemporary artists (I even wrote a paper on her for my freshman-year art class), but I have no idea how the box even got here.

  With a racing heart and trembling fingers, I reach for that box like a tiger stalking its prey—like it might somehow sense my presence and leap out of my grasp.

  When I flip open the lid, I find a bottle of perfume nestled inside. Only, this is no ordinary bottle—it’s more like a mini work of art.

  The base is made of cobalt blue glass. The lid is gold with two serpents rising out of the top. One of the snakes is gold, the other multicolored. Their slinky forms are intertwined, and their mouths are open as though they’re about to devour each other.

  I remember reading how the artist made the perfume to finance the cost of building the Tarot Garden in Italy, which served as the inspiration for the sculpture garden Arthur built just a few stories below my window. Because the sheer size and scope of the original Tarot Garden sculptures made it impossible for Arthur to snatch them from Tuscany and leave counterfeits in their place, he had his on-site artisans build similar pieces on a much smaller scale, using the plans he’d commissioned from the artist herself.

  According to Arthur, it was the last project Niki de Saint Phalle ever worked on before her death in 2002.

  But long before the Tarot Garden was built, there was a complicated labyrinth made of hedges. I know this because on my first day here, I stood at my window, caught in the grip of an Unraveling, as I watched a small figure clad in a red velvet cape race through the maze. Once they reached the center, they touched a crystal sphere and instantly vanished into thin air. A handful of seconds later, they reappeared. Only this time, they had a small brown object clutched in their hand—one that looked a lot like the book I later saw in Song’s room.

  And though I have no way to prove it, I know in my bones that none of this is a coincidence. The reveal—this perfume—they’re connected somehow. But who on earth left it and why?

  My first guess is Freya, mostly because she has access to my room. But it’s not like I know her very well. Like most of the support staff, she goes out of her way to minimize our contact. And though Song was friendly with Freya, it still doesn’t explain why Freya would leave the box for me and not Oliver or Finn, who were pretty much Song’s best friends.

  Also, if it was Freya, then why didn’t she mention it just now in the hall?

  I twist off the cap and breathe a deep inhale. The fragrance is bold, heady, and intense—much like the artist herself. But I don’t remember ever smelling any of those notes on Song or anyone else.

  My gaze darts back to the box, having no idea what any of this means, when my eye catches on a small square of paper I hadn’t noticed before.

  It’s a note. A small, folded bit of cardstock bearing a wax seal of a finely detailed rose. And though I’m used to seeing the Gray Wolf wax seal, this is the first time I’ve ever seen a note marked with a rose, and that alone gives me pause.

  I trace a finger along the edge, trying to recall everything I know about what a rose might symbolize.

  There’s love, of course. Passion, romance, that sort of thing.

  I shake my head and frown. There’s got to be something more. Something I’m missing.

  I close my eyes, sifting through memories, when a series of images bursts across the screen in my brain.

  I’m outside, in my backyard, helping my dad tend to the small garden he kept.

  It’s spring, our rosebush is in bloom, and I watch as he clips a bud from its stem and carefully hands it to me.

  “The rose is more than just a flower—it’s an important symbol,” he says. “Do you remember what I taught you about symbols?”

  I brush the petals against my nose, enjoying their soft, silky feel. “To always look beyond the surface. To always go for the deeper meaning of things.”

  My dad nods. “In addition to being a symbol of love, the rose is also a symbol of secrecy. The sort of secrets that must be kept under the strictest of confidence,” he says, the words rushing out of him, as though he needs to finish the lesson before my mom can come find us. “The term ‘sub rosa’ literally means under the rose, which also implies secrecy. So, if you ever find yourself in a room with a rose hanging from the ceiling, whatever you learn in that room must be kept confidential. You can tell no one what happened in there.”

  I squinch my eyes, trying to imagine such a thing. “You mean like how some people hang mistletoe at Christmas?”

  My dad grins, but there’s an unmistakable sadness in his gaze that even his smile can’t erase. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Kind of like that.”

  The images fade as quickly as they arrived, leaving me with a silent sob in my chest as I stare down at the folded square of paper and take a deep breath.

  After breaking the seal, I begin to read.

  8

  Turns out, it’s not actually a note like I thought.

  It’s more of a riddle. And even after reading it twice, I’m still not sure how to interpret it, so I read it once more:

  O follower of fools

  You stand afore the oracle

  Serpent girdle at your waist

  Red roses spread above and below you

  It’s folly that binds you to this place

  Finally, after the third go, the obscure imagery clicks into place. The answer is so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it from the start.

  Of course. It’s a reference to the Tarot Garden.

  Between the perfume and this note, Song is pointing the way to wherever she’s hidden the book.

  Or at least I hope that’s what this means. And if I’m right, then I’m pretty sure I know just where to start.

  A tarot deck consists of seventy-eight cards—twenty-two that comprise the Major Arcana, and fifty-six that make up the Minor Arcana. And those first twenty-two cards—starting with The Fool and ending with The World—follow a specific order that also serves as an allegorical journey of life.

  Just like Niki de Saint Phalle’s sculptures in Tuscany, the Tarot Garden at Gray Wolf includes pieces that represent all the cards in the Major Arcana. Which leads me to believe that the first line in Song’s note, “O follower of fools,” is referring to the Magician card (a card I once associated with Arthur), since that card happens to be number one, which immediately follows the Fool card, which is numbered zero.

  The second line, “You stand afore the oracle,” confirms that I’m right. The oracle, also known as the High Priestess, is the number two card in the deck, coming just after the number one card, the Magician.

  The “Serpent girdle at your waist,” along with the “Red roses spread above and below you” line, further confirms that Song is pointing me toward the Magician statue, since in the standard Rider-Waite tarot deck, the Magician is depicted with a snake wrapped around his middle and a bed of roses sprawling above and below him.

  But I’m still not sure what she meant by: “It’s folly that binds you to this place.”

  Is Song referring to the fact that the sculptures here are duplicates of the ones in Italy?

  Or maybe it’s a veiled jab at Arthur himself and this time-traveling fortress he’s made?

  Or is it more personal, like a reference to me and the fact that I’ve stopped fighting, stopped trying to find a way out of this place?

  Honestly, the last phrase could mean just about anything. And since it’s not like I can ask her, I’m forced to work with what I have.

  With the perfume bottle and note in hand, I make for the large picture window, where I gaze out at a day that’s already revealing itself to be gray, gloomy, and cold. Nothing new here.

  I dip my focus downward, dropping several stories to the Tarot Garden below. When I find the silver dome that marks the top of the Magician’s head, a sudden chill shudders through me, reminding me of something I’d forgotten until now.

  In a traditional tarot deck, the Magician wears a red cape—much like the figure I saw racing through the maze during the Unraveling on my first day.

  Is that another connection—or another coincidence?

  Always look beyond the surface, my dad said. Always go for the deeper meaning of things.

  My gaze drifts back to the sky, where dark, swollen storm clouds are crowding into one another until they double in size. Any minute now, the heavens will break and unleash a torrent of rain.

  There’s a voice in my head urging me to get outside while I can—before the rain has a chance to ruin my plan.

  But I also know that appearances matter here, and I can’t afford to draw any negative notice my way.

  Setting the poem and the perfume aside, I strip off my borrowed clothes, slip into the shower, and crank the water on high.

  As the shower stall fills with steam, my memory returns to the day I saw the leather-bound book in Song’s room, and how it reminded me of the one I saw in an Unraveling on my first day here. But when I asked for a closer look, Song blew me off.

  Some other time, she’d said. Quickly followed by a phrase I haven’t been able to get out of my head: Just so you know, magick has always been the currency of the oppressed.

  I’ve dissected those words more times than I can count. I even checked to see if she was quoting someone—as far as I can tell, she wasn’t. And I seriously doubt she got it from one of the inspirational messages Arthur likes to send to our slabs.

  No, Song was telling me something—something related to the book. And though I’m still not sure what she meant, I think I’ve managed to solve the riddle inside that note:

  Arthur is the Magician. The rest of us are the oppressed. But we’re only bound here by folly. We have defenses—by way of magick—that just might free us from this place.

  There was a time when the thought of using magick for anything would’ve made me laugh. But now that feels like a lifetime ago.

  Ever since I learned time travel is real—ever since I was vaulted several centuries into the past—virtually nothing is off the table for me.

  Wasn’t it Einstein who said, “That which is impenetrable to us really exists”?

  And while I’m not about to argue with Einstein, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, getting a bit ahead of myself.

  Maybe it’s not nearly as bad as I think.

  Maybe Song didn’t disappear.

  Maybe she made a choice to find Anjou, since no one else could be bothered.

  As I rinse the soap from my body and wring the shampoo from my hair, I know that whatever happened to Song, the answers I seek are inside that book.

  9

  After slipping into a black turtleneck and a pair of dark denim jeans I wear tucked inside my boots, I hear a brisk crack of thunder, followed by a heavy downpour of rain, and I know the official window for not getting drenched is now permanently closed for what’s likely to be the rest of the day.

  I reach for my warmest down parka—the one with the hood—and I’ve just stepped into the hall, destination Tarot Garden imprinted on my mental GPS, when my slab chimes with an incoming message.

  My first thought is that it’s from Braxton. Arthur let him go early. And though I’m thrilled by the idea of spending the rest of the day together, for now I need to drum up an excuse—something that’ll deter him long enough for me to head out into a torrential downpour so I can scour every inch of the Magician sculpture in search of the book.