Ursula loosed a long breath, steadying her nerves. She slid her face into her hands, trying not to imagine Hugo burning in hellfire. “A relief from my death sentence. I could kiss Zee. And now I just need to find Hugo. I heard him saying he was going to the opera tomorrow night.”
Kester smirked. “You see? The prospect of your own torment clarifies your thinking, doesn’t it?”
She glowered at him. “I don’t need you to gloat about it.”
“Obviously, you need training. I can give you until tomorrow night to collect Hugo’s soul, but beyond that I’ll have to report to Emerazel. Even this amount of leniency is risking my own skin.” His glacial voice chilled her blood. “And do not create a scene again, or we’ll both end up in flames. You have one thousand pages in your ledger—a thousand souls you must collect. Don’t give Emerazel the pleasure of reaping your soul before you get through them.”
He pivoted, stalking out of the room, and Ursula was left on her own to stare at the cold vastness of New York.
Chapter 18
Ursula hugged herself and crossed into the cavernous living room. The apartment felt noticeably colder without Kester in it.
On an oak coffee table, an uncorked champagne bottle rested in a bucket of ice, two empty glasses next to it. She sighed. Kester had obviously been planning a little celebration, assuming she’d somehow succeed.
Instead, she was left on her own. Again.
Her sense of loneliness threatened to crush the breath out of her. She had no one—not in a world where people kept their secrets closely guarded, disclosing only the tiniest glimmers of truth.
She poured herself a glass and collapsed onto the stiff crimson settee. Might as well make use of this.
She tried to ignore the ache of isolation gnawing at her chest, and flipped open her phone, scanning the news. A story about a crazed fan at Club Lalique was the top story. Fortunately, Zee had apparently glamoured everyone into believing the assailant was a blue-haired man with a tattoo of a spider on his cheek. It was a bizarre enough description that it wouldn’t lead to any false arrests. Only Hugo would still remember the truth.
Kester was right. She needed to find him as soon as she could, or the truth would get out.
And yet, Kester’s secrecy made her blood boil. The man was full of mysteries: the death of Henry, the truth about Zee, his own mysterious past, the locked library books—even the forbidden room upstairs.
At this point, she was entirely dependent on him to tell her about this bizarre new world, yet the guy clearly wasn’t trustworthy. He was the Headsman, for crying out loud. He’d even referred to himself as a monster. How could she trust anything he said? What if all of this was a lie, and there was another way out?
Moreover—what was it he was so desperate to keep from her, that stood locked in her own apartment? He’d said this was her place, but he sure didn’t act that way. There were rooms she couldn’t enter, while Kester was free to swan in and out whenever he pleased. She drained another glass of champagne. She was going to start finding out secrets on her own.
She refilled her champagne flute and rose. Clutching the glass, she hurried upstairs into the hallway. As the bubbly took hold of her mind, her mood brightened. I’m not a screw-up. I just have a normal aversion to sending people to hell.
At the end of the dark corridor, the forbidden oak door shone with an otherworldly light.
Slowly, she approached the door, its surface punctuated by iron spikes. It certainly didn’t look inviting, but maybe some kind of answers lay inside. She was done with secrets. She gripped the doorknob, cursing when it wouldn’t twist open. Kester hadn’t lied when he said it was locked. She’d need to find another way in.
She stalked down the hall to the botanical room, which stood adjacent to the locked door. She inhaled deeply. Oranges, rosemary, and marigolds. Kester hadn’t just had the place cleaned—he’d had the whole greenroom replanted.
She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. In the frost-covered panes, Manhattan’s lights appeared hazy and distorted.
She gazed down at the yellow taxis and the few pedestrians foolhardy enough to brave the winter night. What were they doing, with their normal human lives? Hurrying to their parents, their spouses, their lovers? Maybe just slipping down the block for last call at the bar?
Still agitated, she took a long slug of her champagne. She’d grown sick of all secrets and mystery. She didn’t want to be the bloody Mystery Girl. She wanted to know where she came from, who her parents were, and how she’d ended up with Emerazel’s mark carved in her shoulder. But short of that information, she at least wanted to know what lurked in the locked room in her own apartment. Is that too much to ask?
She glanced at the windowsill. A little brass handle protruded from the iron rail, and she pulled at it, cracking it open. I guess that answers my question about penthouse windows.