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SUMMER ARRIVED ALLat once, the delicate green of spring deepening and the air growing thick with heat. Desmond and Celia were coming to Harrow for the summer, and I’d been awaiting their arrival with impatience, eager to have their company again.

The day Victoria and her children arrived, they piled out of the car with an air of baffling cheer. I was out front with Bryony, and we exchanged a look as Victoria beamed at us.

“Are we pretending Roman never existed then?” Bryony muttered.

“That would be my preference,” I said. “Sorry, that’s awful.”

“He was trying to murder you. I think you can be a little mean,” she replied.

“Helen! You’re up bright and early,” Victoria said. Her hair spilled loose around her shoulders, the soft curls framing her round face.

“You must have driven through the night,” I said.

“We got a late start from Atwood, and I didn’t want to bother with a hotel. I’m an insomniac these days anyway,” she said, and patted at her hair absently. Her fingertips brushed against her earlobe, and she frowned. “Oops. I think I lost an earring.” Sheturned back to the car to look for it in the seat as Desmond hauled a suitcase out of the back.

“She’s totally manic. I think she’s decided to pretend that nothing happened,” he whispered to me. Celia slinked around the back of the car, a single bag over her shoulder. “Any sign of the journal?”

I’d conducted as thorough a search of the house as I could, but there was no sign of it—and since Desmond had been working from the original, we’d never bothered to photograph the rest of it, so we didn’t have backups.

Celia tucked her hand into her pocket, and something silver flashed briefly between her fingers before disappearing. I peered at her. She blanched, hurrying past me to the house.

“Helen?” Desmond prompted.

“Hm? Oh—no, I haven’t found it,” I said distractedly.

Celia was a thief. I’d noticed it before—Desmond’s pen, Mom’s lipstick—but I hadn’t given it much thought. I’d been assuming that whoever stole the journal did it because they didn’t want us to read what was inside, but maybe the answer was more mundane than that.

“Mind giving me a hand?” Desmond asked me, hefting one of his bags.

I looked at Bryony. “It’s fine. I’ll see you later,” she said.

“You could come in,” Desmond suggested, in a strained attempt at friendliness.

She shook her head. “I’m supposed to go talk to Elizabeth Cotter. Meet me at the folly at seven, Rabbit?”

I nodded. She gave a little wave and headed off, more stiff andawkward than usual. I wondered if it was Victoria’s presence that did it—or simply the return of Desmond and Celia, shattering the world we’d had the last few days, the one built around just the two of us.

“Who’s Elizabeth Cotter?” Desmond asked as we went up the steps.

“Haley Cotter’s mother,” I said.

“And who’s—”

“Haley Cotter died right around the time we were born. It might have something to do with the Other. We’re just trying to put the pieces together.”

“And things with the witch are...”

“Complicated,” I said with a sigh.My girlfriend and I are on the same page re: the sacrificing of girls for dark rituals but divided on the subject of whether the monster in my house is evil or just misunderstoodwas a bit much for a status update.

“They’d pretty much have to be,” Desmond replied. He gave me an odd look, started to say something, and then shook his head. I helped him carry his bags up to his room, and then we stood there awkwardly for a moment.

“You haven’t been answering my texts,” I said. “I mean, it’s okay. I know you were probably busy, and you have an entire life of your own and friends and a girlfriend, but I was worried, and—”

“I just needed some space to think about some things,” he said. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “A lot happened. It took some time to process.”

“Right. Of course,” I said, nodding.

“You really are...” He trailed off. “I like you, Helen. I do. ButI had to decide whether I could do this. Harrow doesn’t own me. I can leave if I want.”