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I push to my feet and trail my fingers along the edge of a console table, tracing through a thick layer of dust. From the salon, I move through a small servants' hallway into the library. It’s in here that my brows arch when I lift my eyes to the extra-tall ceiling.

Holy shit.

The shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, carved from dark wood and filled withhundredsof books. Maybe a thousand, or more. Most of them are tucked behind glass-paned doors, as if the house is still trying to protect them.

Keep moving. Do the thing and then call Evelina before she freaks out and worries you’ve been dragged down to Hell by an evil spirit.

Imight not believe in ghosts. But Evelina, my wonderful ifextremelysheltered and superstitious friend, believes enough for both of us, and was positively beside herself that I took this dumb dare tonight.

I turn to leave the library and find the stairs to Lady Greymoor’s old bedroom, then pause.

It’s like a compulsion at this point. I simplycannotbe in a room full of books andnotlook for it. And, come on: if a copy of a certain 1700’s book from the Sturm and Drang period of German literature is going to be anywhere, I would bet that a place like this is it.

Before I can convince myself to just drop it, I’m already at one of the massive shelves, scanning the spines of the old leatherbound books. Seriously, there's at least a thousand books here. Mercifully, I realize pretty fast that they’re alphabetized by author.

I trace my finger over another shelf, with the “G” names.

…Wait.

Everything else in the house is covered in dust. But the bookshelves, even the ones not behind glass doors—like this one—aren’t.

It’s as if the books themselves are old, but haven’t actually beenherethat long. As if someone placed them here recently…

A shiver licks up my spine.

Don’t be ridiculous.

I shake the thought away and keep tracing over the spines until I come to a sudden halt atG-O-E.

Goethe. As in Johann Wolfgang Goethe, author of the famous line “be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid.”

Why yes, Iama huge fucking dork, thank you for asking.

And right there under my finger is the very book I was curious about finding here:The Sorrows of Young Werther.

I whisper the title out loud like it’s a secret.

It’s an old edition, the leather binding dry and cracked. I slide it out gently, almost reverently.

I'll admit, it’s…weirdfor your favorite book to be a super moody and emo German book from the late seventeen hundreds. Especially one written in epistolary fashion—as in, a series of letters. And, yes, if I picked it up for the first timenow, it might not even be in my top one hundred books.

But this book came to me at a perfectly wrecked time in my life. I was fifteen and my mom had just died when our English professor at prep school assigned it. Where everyone else bitched and moaned about it, I ended up curling up in the corner of the ballet studio after class every day anddevouringit.

It was the first thing that made the ache in my chest feel understood.

Take something. Leave something.

I feel a brief pang of guilt, but then shake it off. Is it even stealing if no one’s lived here for at least eighty years?

I decide that it’s not, and in the same instant, I decide that I’m taking this book home with me today.

Finding the book, though, is only the first part of my compulsion when it comes to dear Werther and his sorrowful, weepy letters. I swallow, hesitating, like I’m gearing up to yank off a present's wrapping paper on Christmas morning.

I’m just about to open the cover to see if it’s written on the first page when a sound cuts through the silence.

Creak.

A dagger made of ice plunges into my heart. I whirl, clamping the book shut as my eyes stab into the darkness, a gasp choking in my throat.