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“The forge.” She indicates the room at the end of the hall.

“A forge for?”

“Magical armor.”

I shake my head. I’ve never heard of magical armor. But she doesn’t offer more information. We walk the length of the estate, passing the study and common areas before finally slipping outside. A manicured lawn stretches out before us, ending abruptly at a line of trees. Workers are setting up a series of raised platforms. With them is a Dragun, checking his Order-issued phone.

“More festivities tonight?” I ask.

“Sure, you can call it that.” Adola’s arm moves across her body, and she grimaces as if she’s sick to her stomach. Beyond the tree line are wooded acres so thick, it may as well be nighttime inside them. The Dragun breaks from the crowd and jogs with a slight limp toward us. I recognize him: Charles. Fatigue shades his heavy eyes, as if he didn’t sleep a wink last night either. Adola greets him, but he watches me with curiosity.

“You’re much feistier than I expected.”

The Dragun coin at his throat taunts me. Jordan.

“Charlie, please let my aunt know that the platforms for Trials are the wrong size.”

His expression softens when he looks at Adola, before his brows furrow. “She won’t be happy about that.”

“Tell her quickly, please.”

His eyes find me again, lingering for a moment on my diadem, and he flashes a satisfied smirk before he hustles back toward the main house.

“That should buy us some time. I love Charlie like an uncle, but he is Mother’s pet through and through. He can’t get a whiff of what we’re doing.” Adola picks up the pace.

“What are these Trials I keep hearing about?”

“Would you walk faster? We’ve already been seen once.” She hurries across the field before slipping beneath the wooded canopy. When I join her, the sun hides from us and the woods become a cone of silence. No hint of a guesthouse. We follow a well-worn path deeper into the forest.

“Trials are how we earn virtue pins,” she finally says. “Accolades specific to our House. Perls are ambitious, if nothing else, and the easiest way to garner favor with my aunt is to have a decorated collar. A complete set is six, and earning all is very rare. My cousin—”

“I know.”

She smirks.

“And the heir to House of Perl has how many?”

That wipes the smile off her face. I don’t suppose Beaulah Perl is happy about that either.

“The guesthouse is just up ahead,” she says.

The hidden abode is two stories, with a steeply pitched roof and the same number of small windows on each side. Its navy-blue painted siding would be hard to see in the shady forest if it weren’t for the overgrown greenery clawing its way up. The wide porch creaks as I hurry up the steps, relieved to be closer to some answers. My mother was just here. The thought tightens a knot between my shoulders. I hold the door open but Adola’s taken off, back toward the estate.

Inside is a cozy living room, and beyond it a kitchen and another sitting room.

“Hello?” I give the common areas a quick walk and listen for any hum of heartbeats, but the guesthouse is quiet. I hurry down the hall of bedrooms and check the first room, twisting its knob, but it doesn’t give. Toushana seeps through my skin, disintegrating the door handle. Beaulah may know I did it, but if I find a clue to where Mom could have gone, I’ll be out of here before Beaulah can question me. I give the door a firm push and it opens.

The room is filled with personal belongings. The bed is unmade and a pile of dirty clothes are on the floor. I close the door quickly and try the next room. And the next. Each locked room is filled with things and reasonably disheveled. None of the items belong to my mother, from what I can tell. Still, I carefully check every single room.

When I twist the knob on the last one, it opens easily. The room is bright and inviting, with a sprawling rug; a large, freshly made bed; and an empty closet. There is a layer of undisturbed dust on the dresser. My heart squeezes. This could have been hers.

I rummage through the dresser but the drawers are empty. Where are you, Mom? Dead, I can almost hear Yagrin saying, again, in my head. I slam the drawer shut. My mother is a survivor! I pull back the covers on the bed and feel beneath the mattresses. Nothing. I sift through linens in a trunk. Still nothing. I remove all the folded blankets, but the bottom of the trunk is empty. I’m tossing them back inside when a stack of crinkled papers tumble to the floor. Each item is a different color, and stained, with ripped edges. I faintly make out faded calligraphy and an envelope to match. The Ditmore. The Caldwell. Harvest Fest. Invitations to various balls. Addressed to various people whose names I don’t know. These were collected. Probably stolen. But who—

The door bursts open, and I shove the stack of invites down the bust of my dress.

“Hello there again.” Charlie smiles. Beside him is a portly fellow with flushed cheeks in a nice suit.

“You can’t be in here, madam,” he says. “All the guests are in sessions at the big house, so I stepped away. I’m sorry I missed you. I would have told you as much.”