Page 65 of Wolfsbane Hall
He’d counted on it. He’d sculpted it. He needed it. Because he set up his dominos piece by piece, creating an intricate and impossible pattern before he pushed one down and watched the rest follow suit.
The Phantom wasn’t just playing one game. He was playing many, all at once, and he was winning them all.
But what did he want?
It didn’t matter. At the moment, only one thing mattered.
The name.
Vivian called Margot “Marguerite.”
Marguerite.
So had Dean…and Celestine had seen that name earlier.
She creaked open the door to her bedroom, half expecting a trap, but she was only met with her slightly messy sanctuary. She was late to the show tonight, so while she hated messes, she hadn’t had time to clean up. Books were strewn on every available surface. Sheets crumpled as if someone had just awakened from a nap, and soft candlelight illuminated the space, setting a slightly gothic atmosphere.
The news articles she’d rescued from the burning North Wing were on the nightstand—right where she had left them. But Celestine halted as she reached for them. Beside the stack was something entirely new. A music box. She shouldn’t have paused, and she absolutely shouldn’t have reached down and opened the box. Yet she did.
The haunting nursery rhyme wafted out. It was the same song that had been plaguing the night, but this time, it was a beautiful soprano melody, floaty and rich.
Margret, Margret hanging down. It’s cold this Winter’s mourning. Too bad and oh so sad. You caused the Marquess’s scorning.
The sound crawled under Celestine’s ribcage and nestled there like a caterpillar in its cocoon.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she sensedhispresence in the room. Either the Phantom or Specter. But she said nothing, not letting them know she’d felt them there.
They could wait.
The nursery rhyme bent with the presence of the ghost. The words faded away, and only a soft lullaby remained, a mixture of piano and violin notes that felt more like a bubble bath than a haunted nightmare. Although it would always be a mix of the two in Wolfsbane Hall.
Celestine ran a finger along the burned edges of her articles before reading the top one once more.
The article was dated December 26, 1760, and the headline read:Suicide or Another One of the Marquess of Winterly’s Misfortunes?
The main article gave more details, but was still full of judgment and conjecture.
Duke Breython’s maid was found dead on Christmas Eve, an apparent suicide. The Marquess and his brother are heartbroken by Miss Marguerite’s death. The girl was said to be rather close to the Marquess and his twin. So close, that some sources say the brothers shared her as their mistress. Twins are supposed to be close, but not that close. Others say Marguerite was their mother’s lady’s maid and nothing else. Either way, her body was found hanging in the west tower at Breython’s great house. It is believed to be an apparent suicide, but this writer is unconvinced. As we know, the duke’s eldest son, the Marquess of Winterly, is no stranger to heartbreak and death. His first fiancée was found drowned in the lake at her house, his second ran off with the stable boy and eloped in Scotland, and his third was found trampled to death by her horse. Is the Marquess simply the unluckiest young man in Britain, or is there something far more sinister happening in the north count—
The rest of the article was far too burned to finish, but Celestine had read everything she needed. Margot, thedemon, the ghost in her head, had been killed. There was no way she killed herself, not when she loved Everett—and playing with Vivian and Dean. Of course, Celestine had guessed much, and Margot had said as much. But there was something so disturbing about confirming the fact. It made it all the more real and reaffirmed that there was nothing ordinary about the night’s show at Wolfsbane Hall.
The song, the newspapers, and Celestine’s character all pointed back to 1760 and the suicide. But it wasn’t a suicide. It was murder.
Yes, it was, Margot said in their head.
A murder in 1760. Shit. Were the Ashbrooks immortal?
Something like that.
Something like immortal? What did that even mean? But more importantly, Margot’s death was vitally important to the show tonight. Perhaps some of the answers Celestine needed were in the past, and who would know the past better than the one who lived it?
“Who killed you, Margot?” Celestine asked aloud, but it wasn’t the ghost inside her who responded. It washim.
“So you’ve figured it out?” the deep whiskey voice whispered from behind her ear, and his breath stroked her neck.
She whirled around, trying to catch him, but her hands fell as if through smoke.
Never physical.
