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I smack the door shut on father’s face.

It slams harder than I meant it to.

I do sometimes wonder about that door, and after Eamon ordered it around, I’m of the strong suspicion that it is more than enchanted, but is sentient.

In the shadows of the lobby, no ears around to listen in on us, Eamon loosens a sigh. “I was with a male,” he tells me. “One who isn’t Ridge, and who also isn’t a known same lover.”

My face is blank as I nod, like I’m digesting his words.

It’s not a terrible shock, really.

Eamon was never a one-male type of lover. And I know nothing about any faithful arrangements between him and Ridge, so I don’t judge him.

He never judges me, no matter the wrong I commit.

“No, you weren’t.” I shake my head. “You were with me, here. Father believes that to be the absolute truth—and so it’s your story from now on.”

Eamon’s hand comes around the back of my head. He draws me into him and lowers his chin to press a firm, chaste kiss to my crown. He knows how much I risk with this lie I throw over him, a blanket of protection.

But the kiss is as brief as father’s visit because I’m almost thrown off my feet.

The door swings open so suddenly that one could convince me of its excitement. I have only a moment to stagger out of its way and avoid being knocked to the floor.

The glare I throw at the door is fleeting, because—out from the darkness of the street, those thickened shadows that the lanterns and glowjars and streetlamps work extra hard to penetrate—a familiar male saunters up the faintly gleaming path.

Dare’s glamour has slipped away completely, and I have the distant question in my mind,did you walk through the human lands looking like that?

Any questions I might ask are dismissed by the fierce look Dare throws at both Eamon and me.

He lifts his ivory hand as if to silence us.

A wide grin sweeps my face. I aim it at Dare as he stalks past us for the short stairs that descend to the kitchens.

“Good morning,” I call out after him. “Or should I say, good phase? How are you?”

He throws a dark glower over his shoulder at me, but then he’s gone down the stairs, and the front door gently shuts itself.

I frown at it.

That decides the mystery for me.

That door is sentient from expensive magick, or it’s plain alive like those crooked trees out in the Black Forest of Dorcha, maybe cut from that very wood, now it lives here at Hemlock House and lords over all the other doors.

Eamon ruffles my hair. “Come on.”

He leads the way back to the kitchens.

We find it as occupied and sleepy as we left it.

Only now, Aleana is guzzling stimulating teas and springwater; Daxeel reclines in his sturdy chair with his hands folded at the back of his neck like a pillow; and Dare has a coffee jug all to himself, perched on the edge of the bench. The drink-illness haunts him, too. His dark waves are messier than my own, his grey sweater looks tugged and stretched in some spots, and his dark golden eyes are locked onto Rune’s unflinching stare.

Eamon wanders his way to the stove tops, where Samick has set out eggs and strips of freshly cut meats.

My stomach growls.

But I must wait for them to cook, and I’m no help, so I fall into the seat beside Daxeel and bring my knees to my chest.

Daxeel reaches out for the spine of my chair. His hand rests there, the brush of his thumb disturbing my loose waves. It’s a gesture that lures in a glance from Aleana.