Books surround me on both sides, their gilt titles gleaming in the low light. I open a slim book titled Sempera: Histories and begin to read halfway down the page.

By the account of a commanding officer of the Royal Navy, it reads, the Queen of Sempera cut the invaders’ throats herself, with a blade that was said to absorb any magic in their blood, gifted to her by the Sorceress. She had her time lender, a darkly hooded woman who walked the battlefield beside her, bleed men where they lay, turning them into blood-iron while the fallen were made to watch—and wait their turn.

I close the book and hold it to my chest, shivering with cold in spite of the room’s heat. Papa never told me much of the invasions and rebellions that took place in the first century of the age of blood-iron, after the Sorceress’s and Alchemist’s magic first spread across the land. But Amma’s adoptive grandfather claimed that one of their ancestors had fought in the Queen’s army. I’d walk to Amma’s cottage, and we’d sit in front of his chair while the old man told stories of thieves who’d let your blood in the night, of lost limbs and rolling heads, until Amma begged him to stop. The invaders, he said, would have killed everyone in Sempera and carried the blood-iron back across the seas. But instead, the Queen ordered her armies to consume the blood-iron of the fallen and grow mighty.

Still clutching the book, I scan my surroundings for somewhere I can sit and read. But then, I see him: Liam Gerling sitting at a desk on a balcony over my head, bent over a sheaf of pages.

I’m frozen where I stand, my heart racing. If he just glanced down, he could see me through the polished wood bars of the balcony railing. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I back away into the shadow of a tall bookcase.

Torn between fleeing and going about my business, I observe him carefully. Even if he doesn’t recognize my face, he might notice a maid reading instead of dusting. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything at all. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his foot taps impatiently, as if whatever he’s reading frustrates him. Every few moments, he’ll frown, scratch something into his notebook, then go back to reading.

At the sight of his sharp features—so long an object of my nightmares—anger rises in me, quick as the flames from the kitchen hearth. The memory of our expulsion from Everless comes back to me in scattered images, bursts of sound and heat.

I remember Liam shoving Roan toward the hearth. A moment of stillness like the space between lightning and thunder. And then the fire roaring out of the furnace like something alive, flames leaping through the air. The terror in Roan’s eyes.

I close my own eyes slowly, willing the memory away, then open them again. Whatever Liam is reading so intently must be important. Since returning from the academy at the end of summer, he has taken an active hand in managing the Gerlings’ fortune and Everless affairs in general—at least, so I’ve gathered from other servants’ grumblings about him. Would the family have accepted him back so readily if they knew what he tried to do to Roan? Does Roan remember his brush with death?

A manservant—Stefan, if I remember right—breezes by me; I catch the smell of cologne. Stefan looks back at me over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. My breath catches in my chest, but he continues to move down the aisle, then mounts the stairs at the end. He approaches Liam’s desk and taps on his shoulder.

Liam’s head jerks up, irritation twisting his features, and the servant murmurs to him. He sighs and opens a drawer, laying his book and notebook inside before closing and locking it.

I’m about to turn away when something else catches my eye, a flash of strange color as Liam stands. His palms are stained, as if he’s dipped them in wine.

Hinton’s words float up to the surface of my mind. His hands were stained purple. Papa’s hands.

Before I can think better of it, my feet are moving. I put the book down and trail Liam and the servant at a distance as they stride toward the library exit, Liam in the lead.

I make sure to keep half a corridor’s length behind them as they pass through the halls, keeping my eyes on the tails of Liam’s long coat. We’re walking along one of Everless’s main corridors, and the halls are populated with lords and ladies, filtering out from their evening meal back to their rooms—gleaming in silk and velvet and swaying with drink. I keep my eyes down, hoping no one barks at me. Liam ignores all their greetings.

Eventually, though, the hall narrows and empties out, and I fall farther behind the two men. My palms sweat, slick with nerves. Ahead, the men turn a corner, and a few seconds later, I hear their footsteps stop. I slow too, and risk a peek around the corner. They have halted in front of a large door of carved mahogany. I look around—the wall hangings are less luxurious than elsewhere in Everless, but also older and more elegant, with elaborate intertwined geometric patterns. My breath quickens. I’ve never been here before. I shouldn’t be here at all. If I’m caught . . .

To calm myself, I inhale slowly, pausing at the height of my breath—like my father taught me to do when I woke, sweating, from childhood nightmares. It’s a skill I’ve practiced more than a little in the past few days. Two old recurring nightmares seem to have resurfaced since I came back to the estate—one about the night Papa and I were banished, and another, stranger one about a girl who follows me with a knife, her face always in shadow.

Liam and Stefan are conferring with two other men in the hallway—one of whom I recognize as a tax collector, nearly indistinguishable from the one who visited me and Papa in our cottage.

This must be it—the Gerling vault, where they keep their fortune. I’d always imagined them devouring Crofton’s time in one sitting each month, like pigs feeding from a trough. Of course a Gerling would have to be present when they transfer the taxes into the vault. And I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Liam. Roan doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy spending an afternoon in a drafty tower, counting money.

I pull back behind the corner and strain to listen to their voices, the clink of blood-iron. Then the conversation ceases for a moment, and there’s a loud creak, a heavy scraping of door against ground.

“Go up,” Liam commands, and I’m startled as always by how low his voice is. “I’ll meet you in a moment.”

I press my back against the wall, the pounding of my heart urging him to go up, up, up, so I can steal a look at the vault. The thought of getting inside pulls at me, filling me with a mix of horror and fascination.

Then: Liam has turned the corner and caught me, his eyes boring into mine.

I’m far enough away that I might be able to flee if I could bring myself to move, but shock freezes my limbs. In what seems like only a heartbeat, he stands in front of me.