had had the consideration to knock over a lantern and burn goddamned Tranquility to the ground.
But no one had. Perhaps they’d not dared. The duke’s mad vision come to life was a fearsome beast, after all.
Armand dropped his hands to his sides and closed his eyes. He breathed in the musty scent that surrounded him now—still holding the bright bite of salt beneath it—and pushed back thoughts of anything but this room. This place. His mother’s realm.
Reginald hadn’t changed a thing since the night of her death. He hadn’t even bothered with dustcovers.
The soles of Mandy’s wingtips pressed grit into carpet and stone. Dust gathered along the hem of his trousers and covered his fingers as he opened the drawer of the dressing table.
Rose had kept a diary. It was one of the few vivid memories of her he’d retained. It had been of lavender leather with the pages gilded along the edges. As a child the gilding had obsessed him; she’d let him fan the corners with his fingers over and over, trying to rub off the gold.
It wasn’t in the dressing table. Or the writing desk. Or the armoire, the washstand, or the dresser. He found it, incredibly enough, beneath the mattress of the bed.
The mattress. Was Reginald truly that obtuse, that he’d never think to search there? Or had she kept it there as a joke, knowing it was the most obvious place to look?
Mandy glanced around, located a chair, and perched at its edge. He ran a thumb along the diary’s same frayed, familiar corner. Habit.
Then he opened it and began to flip through the pages.
His mother’s voice found him at once.
13 Aug., 1896: Archery Tournament. Second spot. A brisk east wind, else I should have got First.
6 Dec., 1896: So happy! Cannot sleep. Another boy, I am certain of it.
8 June, 1898: Ladies Garden Tour. Ladies Garden Tea. (Make certain Cook knows about the scones!) Ribbon Presentation at Noon. All done by three. Armand viciously fussy. Nanny says colic.
12 June, 1898: A foggy, dreary day.
25 Nov., 1898: Dear Reg says to smile more. A cheery face! That will help.
14 Feb., 1899: Leg of lamb, mint sauce. Peas. Buttered noodles. Speak to Hastings about more candles for the great room.
22 March, 1899: No sleep again. Songs songs songs. I think this latest from the diamond collar he just bought me. It seems like it it seems like it it seems so. I will not speak of how much I loathe the thing.
1 Aug., 1899: She haunts me. I am convinced the answers are there in her letters. Why can’t I find them? Why couldn’t she clearly say? I’ve been so foolish, dismissing her all these years.
3 Oct., 1900: It will not settle. It will not lessen. No peace, no no no not at all.
30 Dec., 1900: Is this what I am to suffer for the rest of my days, this ceaseless Voice? She never mentions such a symptom, only the music and the pain. What is this affliction? So much of my family line remains indistinct. Her words are all I have. Tainted blood. Have I cursed my boys, as well? How willingly I would offer my days for theirs.
15 March, 1901: The sky is so open. I might fly straight into it. no wings but I might i might.
17 March, 1901: I tried. Dear Reg. Found me.
9 May, 1901: Second try. REGINALD.
Mandy slapped the book shut. There were no more entries after that.
She haunts me.
Who was she?
In the dead silence of his dead mother’s room, the motes danced. He sat there in the closed-up tomb of it with the channel seething beyond him, feeling his heart beat. Feeling his lungs, his hands, his feet. The pastel-skinned book between his fingers.
Hearing … songs …
The dressing table, said the sly thing inside. Secret space. Look again.
He dropped the diary. He went to the table, pulled out the drawer once more. Pins, pearls, an Asian-looking fan, a silver-backed comb and brush.
He went to his knees. He reached his hand in as deep as he could and knocked against the end panel.
Hollow.
Armand made a fist and shattered it.
Amid the shards of wood, his fingers found paper. He pulled out a slender stack of folded sheets, yellowed with age, tied with a peach-colored ribbon that was improbably still crisp.
The ribbon fell into a loop on the floor, only a little smeared with blood. He selected one of the sheets at random, opened it, and began to read.