Isabetta pressed her wine-stained shoe directly into the old wedding gown held in Celandine Brindle’s hands

The sweeping marble staircase rose into the shadows of the second floor, leaving the murmur of forty trapped socialites behind in the ballroom.

Percival ascended with silent, predatory grace, his dark trousers creased to perfection, his handmade leather shoes making no sound against the runner. Celandine walked a pace ahead, clutching the silk gown against her black uniform, her flat shoes moving quickly beneath her apron. Behind them followed Garrick and two armed sentries, their hands hovering near their holstered sidearms.

Isabetta trailed at the rear, her heels clicking in erratic, panicked bursts, her fair cheeks flushed with cold sweat beneath her makeup.

"Percival, this is a trap," Isabetta whispered from the landing, her breath ragged. "Someone is trying to provoke you before the Commission meeting tomorrow. If the other families see you chasing shadows through your own hallways, they will think you’re losing your grip!"

Percival did not turn around. "If there is a shadow in my house, Isabetta, I will put a bullet through it. And then I will put a bullet through the person who opened the door."

They turned down the east wing. This corridor was noticeably colder, the air smelling faintly of old cedar, dry lavender, and antique beeswax. The carpets here were thick and navy, absorbing their footsteps.

At the end of the long hallway stood a pair of heavy carved oak doors.

The brass deadbolt was turned, but the latch did not sit flush. The heavy door hung ajar by exactly two inches, revealing a thin sliver of warm, flickering light from within the master suite.

Percival stopped five paces away. He held out his right hand, signaling his men to halt.

"Celandine," Percival murmured, not taking his eyes off the gap in the wood. "Describe the woman you dressed."

Celandine swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the pearl flowers of the gown. "She was sitting at the vanity in the dark when I pushed the door open, sir. She had her back to me. She was wearing a silk undergarment, shivering violently. Her hair was dark brown, curled at the ends, exactly like Madam Genevieve’s."

"Did she speak?" Percival asked.

"Only once," Celandine whispered, her voice trembling with the memory. "She told me to hurry. She said the rosewater was running out. And when I fastened the buttons down her spine, I saw her hands."

"What about her hands?"

"She had a burn scar across her right palm," Celandine said. "In the shape of an anchor."

Garrick inhaled sharply through his teeth.

Percival’s posture did not break, but the air around him grew so thin that Celandine felt the chill press against her skin. Genevieve Hawthorne had received that anchor scar at age nineteen, when an overturned kerosene lantern had exploded on a racing yacht in Long Island Sound. Only three living people in the world knew that mark existed beneath her wedding ring.

Percival reached beneath his jacket, drew a customized matte-black 1911 pistol from his shoulder holster, and flicked the safety off with a single, crisp mechanical click.