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But just as I start heading that way, a sudden burst of cheers sounds from one of the rooms. Curious, I crack open the door and peek inside, only to find they’re in the middle of a construct—a detailed hologram of some fancy masquerade ball—with Mason at center stage, holding a jeweled hair comb he must’ve just nicked from Elodie’s wig.

Seeing him like that, glowing in his success, fills me with relief. Though, that relief is soon followed by a hit of sadness over the undeniable fact that Mason is here because of me.

As though sensing me watching, Mason turns my way, but not wanting to distract from his moment, I slip out and race through the stairways and halls until I’ve made it outside, where I’m greeted with the rare sight of a clear and beautiful day.

But just because it’s not raining doesn’t mean it’s not cold. So, I clutch my tote to my chest, tug my sleeves past my knuckles, and follow the winding stone path that leads me toThe Magician.

Though the design was conceived from the brilliant mind of Niki de Saint Phalle, the way the sculptures fit so seamlessly together withThe Magician’ssilver head perched directly on top ofThe High Priestess, whose gaping, blue-tiled mouth opens to a steep flight of steps that lead straight toThe Wheel of Fortune, feels destined, fated, and even somewhat eerie.

Like an allegory of Arthur, Elodie, and me—it all begins with Arthur, but in this scenario, it ends with me. Elodie is merely caught in the middle.

Luckily, Arthur decided against the water element found in the original Tarot Garden. Which means all I need to do is climb those steps, scaleThe High Priestess, and peer insideThe Magician’s mouth, where, hopefully, I’ll find the book.

I take a quick look around, ensuring I’m still alone. Then, leaving my bag at the foot ofThe Wheel of Fortune, I make my ascent. And just when I’ve managed to haul myself up the ledge ofThe High Priestess’s lip, a voice calls out, saying, “What the hell are you up to, Nat?”

I ignore her and keep climbing. Since she’s already seen me, there’s no point in stopping.

“Whatever you think you’re looking for, you won’t find it there,” Elodie calls.

I glance over my shoulder and, seeing she’s still wearing the costume from the construct, I say, “Your wig’s crooked.” I jab a thumb toward the towering black wig that’s now veering to the left like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Then heave myself up the sculpture until I’m peering intoThe Magician’s gaping mouth, only to find that Elodie’s right. It’s completely empty inside.

Great.

With nothing left to do and nowhere else to go, I begin the humiliating task of finding my way to the ground, painfully aware of Elodie gleefully bearing witness to my clumsy descent.

When I finally reach the bottom, I say, “Why are you following me?”

Elodie nods toward my tote, and that’s when I notice the straps have fallen open, revealing the contents inside.

My slab, the perfume box, and the note with the waxy red rose are sitting right at the top. Luckily, the pocket watch has sunk to the bottom.

“C’mon,” she says, her voice laced with false cheer. Or maybe it’s real cheer; it’s hard to know with her. “Let’s go inside where it’s nice and warm, so you can tell me what you’re looking for, and I can explain why you’re never going to find it anywhere near thatMagician.”

The only reason I go along is because it’s freezing, not because I owe her an explanation. We settle into the room just past the entry where a collection of cushy wingback chairs hangs from a white coffered ceiling. Elodie chooses the purple velvet one, and with her billowing blue dress and collection of glittering jewels, she looks like a descendant from a long line of royals.

I watch as she yanks off her wig, drops it to the floor, then frees her hair from a complicated threadwork of pins until it tumbles in soft golden waves that spiral to her waist.

Figures. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Every time I remove a wig, I’m left with a rat’s nest. Elodie, of course, is left with the sort of gleaming mermaid hair I can’t even manage on a good day.

Her fingers grip the thick silver chains, and as she sets the chair swinging, she says, “Has anyone ever told you what existed in that space before the Tarot Garden was built?” She speaks in a tone that strikes me as deceptively casual.

A labyrinth, I want to say. But not wanting her to know how I know that, I just shrug.

“It was a maze.” She nods, seemingly pleased to share that with me. “One that was meticulously carved from rows of tall hedges.”

I tip farther back in my blue velvet chair. But unlike Elodie, I don’t swing. Instead, I use the toes of my sneakers to gently rock back and forth.

“And at the center of that maze,” she continues, “was a single crystal sphere.”

“You act like you were here back then.” I keep a close watch on her face, looking for clues, signs of deception, anything that might slip past her carefully crafted facade.

She laughs. “Arthur keeps an archive of all the changes he’s made since he took ownership of the island. There’s a whole section of the library devoted just to that. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it, considering all the time you’ve been spending in there. Not to mention your newfound interest in that part of the garden.”

Her gaze locks on mine, but I just continue to rock my chair back and forth like a person who has nothing to hide. But Elodie is nearly impossible to fool, and she’s not fooled by me.

“You’re lucky I showed up to save you,” she says.

“And how exactly did you save me?” I ask, annoyed at myself for taking her bait. Still, something tells me I do need to know.