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Camille watches me squirm for a moment, then laughs gently. “Listen, Alastair and I aren’t possessive with each other. We never have been. Father always tried to make us enemies. But I love Alastair. I’dnever begrudge him anything that makes him happy. He’s the only one in the world who is trulymine.”

“I thought you just said you weren’t possessive,” I tease. Camille rolls her eyes at me, still laughing.

“No matter how often Father tried to force us into competition, Alastair and I refused to play along. It was one of the few ways we could rebel. Father hated it. That’s partly why he sent me away, not that he’d ever admit it. If he couldn’t make us enemies, then he wouldn’t allow us to be allies.” She bites her lip, shifts toward me. Her fingers lace through mine. Already there’s a thrill of familiarity in her touch, as though even my bones, my blood recognize her.

Camille’s voice lowers, her expression turned shy. Her thumb casts restlessly against my knuckles. “What I’mtryingto say is that we’re never envious. We’d never ask you to… choose.”

The way she looks at me makes me feel incandescent; I’m so hot with embarrassment that perspiration beads at my temples, traces down my spine. All I can think of is the golden ratio, and pressing my lips together as I gather myself, I say, “In painting, the best compositions are able to be divided into thirds.”

“Hm, I like that. The thought of us all being like art.” Camille smiles. Then, gently, she goes on, “I heard what you said to Alastair before, about why you were expelled. I’m sorry, too.”

“At least coming home meant that I was able to see you again.” I’m trying to be effusive but my words come out raw, hot tears blurring my eyes. I wipe them away, sniffling, trying to fight the tide of my rising hurt. I don’t want to still be so wounded, to let the ache of Damson’s betrayal intrude on this moment with Camille. But it’s inescapable.

She tugs me closer, her hand sliding to my waist. “You deserved so much better, Lark.”

“It’s just—I’m so afraid,” I admit, my voice unsteady, edged by sobs.“All I wanted was to be a curator, to spend my life with Caedmon’s paintings. Who am I without that? Sometimes it feels like there’s a limit to all the good things in the world. That by the time I realize what I want to do, now, instead, it will be too late.”

Camille’s eyes turn bright, lit by anger—anger on behalf of me. “I wish I had been at Marchmain with you. And when those wretched girls made you hurt, I would have hurt them right back. Lark, the entire world, and all the good it has to offer, will be limitless, andyours.”

She’s so vehement, so certain as she promises the impossible, to bend the world to her will. The violence of her words, the sure press of her palm against my waist, turns me helpless. I gaze at her for a moment, taking in the dark arch of her brows, the high color on her cheeks. Then I weave my hands into her hair, drawing her down to me. I kiss her, heated and wanting.

Camille makes a keening, urgent sound. I can still feel her fierceness in the set of her mouth, the protective ire she felt because I was hurt. She clutches me with hunger, drags me close until her hips meet mine. Her teeth are sharp, scraping over my tongue, as she deepens our kiss.

My breath catches, and the scent of her perfume—strawberries, sugar—envelops me like a haze. Camille kisses me as though she wants to make me anew. And I—I want nothing more. I am bespelled by the taste of her mouth, the press of her hands, her fingertips drawing filigree patterns against my waist. This closeness is a strange magic, one I never knew existed until she revealed it to me.

My eyes sink closed. I feel like the sunlight over the ocean, the way it fragments and turns to gold. Everywhere Camille touches me turns liquid, melting. Her mouth slides lower, past my jaw to the curve of my throat. Her tongue laves against my pulse, and I let out a formless, yearning gasp. She laughs, pleased, and nudges her leg between my thighs.

We stumble back, then; with a jolt, we bump into a piece of furniture that’s behind us—the table where the telephone sits. Piled magazines scatter beneath my careless hand, spilling over the tabletop. Thetelegram from my brothers drifts down to the floor, landing between our feet.

Camille and I move apart. I bend to rescue the telegram; she turns on the nearby salt lantern. It clicks alight, filling the room with brightness. Outside, the storm rises, and the wind sounds like the howl of wolves. I look down at the telegram with a sigh. “I have to try and call Henry and Oberon again.”

Camille lays her hand on my back, stroking gently. “I’m going to check on Alastair. Don’t run away, this time, after I’m gone.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Laughing, she retreats down the hallway, calling out to Alastair.

When I’m alone, I lift the telephone receiver. My hands are shaking, my palms sweat-slick. I pause for a moment, letting myself hope—foolish as a child—that my brothers will be able to solve everything.

I place the receiver to my ear. Pick up the telegram so I can read the number for the hotel where my brothers are staying more clearly as I dial. But there’s no tone. I press the switch hook a dozen times, but the line stays silent.

The silence of the dead line echoes in my ears as I go upstairs.

The landing is unlit, the large front windows of Saltswan covered by streaks of falling rain. As I approach the library, I can hear Alastair speaking to Camille as he explains about Hugo’s appearance at my betrothal night.

She laughs, incredulously. “What, Hugo Valentine? Your ex-boyfriend?”

“It’s not funny, Camille.”

They both look up as I enter the room. They’re seated on opposite ends of the chaise beside a newly lit fire. Alastair has changed into dark linen trousers and a simple knit shirt. His hair has settled into inkywaves as it dries. He scowls at Camille, his arms folded. “Gods,” he sighs. “What a mess.”

I move forward, going to sit down on the chaise between them. But as I take a step, the floor ripples beneath my feet. I start to sink, like I’ve stepped into quicksand or a hidden tidal pool.

The sound of the rain against the library windows turns to the sound of waves. As though the ocean has risen so high that it’s reached the upper floors of Saltswan. I turn quickly to look at the window. Blackened waves lap the sill. Strands of kelp form curlicues against the glass.

In desperation, I look back at Alastair and Camille. They’re still on the chaise. Camille stares blankly at the fireplace, her eyes fixed to the flames. As though she’s under a spell. But Alastair gets slowly to his feet. He comes to me as a wave of salt water washes over the floor, cresting, frothing around us. At his back, a pallid blur unfolds. Wings of stark white feathers. I stumble toward him, reaching for his hands.

“Alastair?” I’m shivering so hard that my teeth bite together. I can hardly speak. My dress is soaked through, plastered against my skin, the fabric drenched. As though I have been submerged.