It began with a scone.
Specifically, me hurling one at Beatrice's window until she woke up, sleep-deprived and betrayed by the concept of mornings.
"I need you," I whisper-hissed.
"For what?" she groaned.
"A spy mission. Meet me by the west stairwell in five. Wear a disguise."
And that's how we ended up, an hour later, crouched behind a tattered tapestry of Ronan stabbing some unfortunate soul under a full moon.Classy.
"I'm just going to say it," Beatrice whispered. "This is a terrible idea."
"That's the spirit," I whispered back. "Now, which one's the Forbidden Tower?"
She nodded toward a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. "That one. Always locked. Staff's forbidden past the third step."
I placed my foot on the third step.
Nothing happened.
I grinned. "We're basically immortal now."
Beatrice sighed. "I told you—Lady Verena died in the conservatory. Not here."
"Exactly. So technically, this one's safer."
The stairs groaned beneath us with the kind of ancient protest that suggested they'd witnessed betrayal, mold, and possibly murder.
"If this turns into a ghost story—" Beatrice muttered.
"Oh, we're already in one," I said. "I'm the doomed heroine, you're the best friend with excellent judgment, and Ronan is—"
"A murderer?" she offered helpfully.
"I was going to say 'misunderstood romantic lead,' but sure. Let's try murderer for now."
We reached the top.
A black iron door loomed before us, covered in carvings and what looked like the remnants of someone's unsuccessful sword-based tantrum.
"Oh," I said cheerfully. "That's normal."
Beatrice crossed her arms. "Do we have a key?"
I pulled out a hairpin.
She stared. "That's not how keys work."
"It is in books," I muttered, jamming it into the lock.
To our horror and delight, the door clicked open.
"…That shouldn't have worked," Beatrice breathed.
I turned to her, wide-eyed. "The universe is handing us a plot arc."
We stepped inside.
Dust. Velvet drapes. Scrolls and maps scattered across ornate tables. A full wall of half-burned letters, each sealed with broken wax. And in the center: a massive desk draped in red yarn.
"…Is that a conspiracy board?" I whispered.
Beatrice inched closer. "Looks like it's tracking something."
"Or someone."
I scanned the strings. One led directly to my name.
"…Okay. I don't like that."
"Wait—look," she said, pointing to a scorched letter on the desk.
I read aloud:
"Remove the girl because she is too inquisitive. She may get diverted from where she is supposed to go."
I blinked. "Wow. Subtle."
Beatrice went pale. "That… might not be about you."
"My name is literally underlined."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. "Fair."
I exhaled slowly.
"So. Ronan's keeping secrets. Maybe plotting something. Maybe just journaling like a very dramatic poet. Either way… we have to be careful."
A low creak sounded behind us.
We turned.
The door was closing.
"Nope," I said, scrambling. I wedged a chair under the handle just before it clicked shut.
"I refuse to die in a room with aesthetic tension and no snacks."
Beatrice exhaled shakily. "I don't like this. It's like… the castle is watching."
I shivered. "That makes two of us."
We retreated—quiet, tense, and not looking back.
Once safely in the hallway, I turned to her.
"Okay," I said. "Maybe we don't confront him yet."
"Perhaps we never do," Beatrice muttered.
I nodded gravely. "Plan B: survive passive-aggressively."
"Genius," she said flatly. "I'm overwhelmed with inspiration."