Page 12

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 wordsNiki de Saint Phalle Parfumwritten 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.