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S HE WAS UP ALL NIGHT , mind running through possibilities and probabilities.

She examined the handwriting for hours, trying to remember the shape of Cordelia’s R ’s, attempting to recall some of the notes Didion had written her before she’d thrown them away, wondering if she’d ever seen Sammy’s handwriting.

But the letters were cramped and shaky, as if making those four words fit on a small enough paper had affected the entire shape of them.

Instead she considered how the note had gotten to her. The strawberry-blonde must have very limited interaction with the world outside of Biltmore, but Briony remembered the way Ilana had passed her a grape two weeks ago. Ilana had access to everyone who walked through the door at Biltmore Palace.

So who could have gotten a note to Ilana?

Sammy and Didion were on the outside. Either of them could have remembered her pet name for Rory.

Cordelia was moved frequently, if Canning was to be believed, but she had intimate knowledge of the Biltmore parties.

Would Cordelia know how to coordinate with Ilana?

Briony sat on her bed, watching the first rays of sun over the grounds, holding the scrap of paper between her fingertips.

She was still in her black dress. She knew Larissa would be upset if she didn’t clean off her powders and creams. After putting the note inside the jewelry box on her bedside table, she heaved herself up and went into the bathroom.

With a clean face, she sat in the tub, thinking through a bigger issue.

no dragon, don’t Worry

What a fascinating series of words. “No dragon” could mean many things.

Briony wondered when the last time she’d heard about the dragon was.

One of the men had said last night that the dragon had been spotted in the Tampet Mountains.

That was where the Bomardi school had been located and where the Quill estate was.

But how long ago was the sighting?

Could the note possibly be telling her that the dragon was dead?

Don’t worry about the dragon, it’s dead.

Could that be it?

So then who could know such a thing?

Briony got out of the bath, wrapped herself in a robe, and returned to her seat at the window.

She needed to know more. She needed to return a message, to show that she was open to communication.

One thing was clear. She needed to get back to Biltmore. And that would only happen if she and Toven could keep from killing each other.

Briony took a long sip of tea, considering.

Three things had seemed to upset Toven last night: kissing Canning, trying to play the part in the dining room, and letting the strawberry-blonde get close to her.

Briony could see his perspective about Canning, but she’d do it again in a heartbeat. Surely he had to understand why.

The rest of his anger made no sense.

She closed her eyes, fighting back her irritation at the impossible riddle that was Toven Hearst. Perhaps understanding the root cause of his anger wasn’t as important as making sure it wouldn’t happen again.

She needed to know what she could and couldn’t do.

Or else he might try taking Larissa in her body.

Briony frowned into her teacup.

That couldn’t happen. She needed to make amends with him.

Even though he was in the wrong.

***

After collecting her thoughts, she searched the hall for him.

She found him in a study on the first floor, the door slightly cracked.

There was no response after a few knocks, so she pushed the door open with her fingertips, holding her breath as it swung backward.

He was bent over a desk, sealing an envelope with the Hearst wax seal with an impassive expression on his face.

She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Can we have a discussion?”

“A discussion.” He sighed and sat back.

The anger that only he stirred in her started to boil before she refocused.

Staying put in the doorway, almost blocking his exit, she said, “I’d like to talk about the fact that we haven’t had a successful evening at Biltmore yet.”

His eyes flickered up to her. “Successful.” She nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “And what would that look like?”

“You tell me,” she said quietly. “I’ve been twice, and both times I’ve felt like I’m drowning.”

There was a flash of something in his face—guilt, perhaps. She pushed forward, holding his gaze.

“I want to continue going to the Biltmore parties. I don’t want you to take someone else in my body.”

He inhaled sharply. “Rosewood—”

“As terrifying and disgusting as it is, Biltmore is the one place I get to see my old friends and feel a little less alone,” she continued, rushing over him. “And hear a bit about the world outside.”

She paused, biting her lip. She wouldn’t tell him about the note or the communication channels. Though she had her suspicions about the Hearsts’ allegiances—though the phrase “political collateral” still rang in her ears—she had no reason yet to trust Toven with her information.

“We need to be on the same page at these parties,” she added.

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“Well, for starters, if I must refrain from kissing Canning Trow in the future, I suppose I can make the sacrifice,” she said dryly.

He rolled his eyes. “How magnanimous of you.”

“I think we need to be more comfortable with each other,” she said, jumping right to the point.

His eyes snapped to hers, unreadable.

“I’m too stiff, you’re too … skittish.” He opened his mouth as if to argue with her.

“Against ‘intimacy,’ whatever,” she said with a flippant gesture.

His mouth closed, and she looked away from his intense gaze.

“I like to go into situations with all the necessary information. I didn’t know you had an aversion to kissing.

” She tore her gaze from his desk and found his eyes staring at a point over her shoulder.

She swallowed. “I believe Canning read my discomfort.”

“And capitalized on it,” he finished.

She nodded. Taking a deep breath and remembering the note, Briony voiced the request that had brought her down here to begin with.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” she said. “Just the two of us.”

His eyes jumped to her face. He was still, except for the muscle in his jaw.

“Have …”

“Dinner.” She nodded. “I want to discuss what a successful evening at Biltmore looks like to you. What it would take on my part to convince your friends of the kind of relationship we are supposed to have.”

He scratched his neck, and she saw pinpricks of pink under his collar. “I’m out this evening.”

The response was swift, and it made Briony’s eyes narrow.

“Tomorrow then,” she said. He shifted on his feet, and she cut off the excuse she knew was coming. “Or any day, really. My schedule is wide open.”

He stared a hole into his desk as he responded, “Tomorrow.”

“Wonderful. Just the two of us.” She paused. “Larissa isn’t still in the house, is she?”

He shook his head.

She ached to ask where it was Larissa stayed while she was “dead,” but she continued, “I’ll arrange everything with the kitchen.”

He lifted a brow and, with a tinge of reluctance, said, “It’s a date.”

Her pulse pounded and her cheeks grew hot. She mumbled something in the affirmative before disappearing from the doorway and racing up the stairs back to her room.

***

The word “date” stuck in her head like glue, flustering her as she tried to prepare the following evening.

Briony changed dresses several times, back and forth between two of them, finding fault with each.

When her hands had reached for the powders and creams in her vanity, she busied them with tying her hair into a braid to rest on her shoulder instead, chastising herself for considering something as silly as dressing up for Toven Hearst.

This wasn’t “a date.” This was preparation for another outing to Biltmore. She needed to get back to Cordelia or Sammy or Didion, and Toven needed to ward off suspicion.

At a quarter till eight, she headed down to the dining room to check on preparations. The house had set two places, just as she’d asked—one at the head of the table, and one just to the left. A bottle of red wine had been decanted, and the serving dishes were full of vegetables and roast beef.

She awkwardly took her seat at the side of the table and had to wait only five minutes before Toven’s footsteps drew her gaze to the door.

She stood swiftly as he entered, her gaze lingering on his dark-blue button-up shirt.

His eyes skimmed the wine and food on the table before landing back on her, quickly assessing her braided hair.

“Rosewood,” he greeted before sweeping to his chair at the head of the table, with the confidence of someone who enjoyed dinner with his captive as a matter of course.

She managed a quick nod. Retaking her seat, she focused on placing her napkin across her lap as she asked, “How was your day?”

He cleared his throat. “Fine. And yours?”

“Lovely, thank you.”

She reached for her wineglass and drank deeply, trying, but failing, to think of something to break the silence. Toven filled his plate with food before pushing the serving plate in her direction, his lips in a thin line. Briony played with her utensils, heat creeping up her neck.

They ate in silence for thirty-six seconds before she could bear it no longer.

“Clearly neither of us is one for small talk, but I don’t intend to sit for two hours in silence.” He lifted a brow at her, and she felt the flush spread to her cheeks. “I have more questions. But I know you hate questions—”

“I don’t hate questions—”

“They put you into a ‘mood’—”

“They do not. You put me into a mood.”

She scowled at him and speared her vegetables with a forceful clink.

He sipped his wine, studying her. She took a large, defiant bite of food and held his gaze.

“What are your questions, Rosewood?”

She swallowed thickly. “Who is Ilana?”