CHAPTER [herty lhe oenomel (n.) something combining strength with sweetness Wila | sHouLp BE QUESTIONING my life choices, searching for a key to Ivan’s cell, or doing anything remotely constructive. Instead, I sat in the drawing room and watched the sun sink below the horizon with the Bible on my lap. The book was in Russian and was therefore incomprehensible, but the words didn’t matter. It was the divine support I needed—similar to a crucifix or a garlic necklace. Je hais Madame Richie. Tu hais Madame Richie. Nous haissons Madame Richie. I was beginning to hate the fortune-teller more each day. I put all the blame on her for setting something in motion I couldn’t stop. I would take credit for my stupidity, but she needed to fess up to the spell she’d put on me to enjoy asphyxiation and the touch of darkness. Lack of college education notwithstanding, I knew nobody in their right mind longed for less oxygen. The front door shut quietly, but it may as well have been slammed, the soft click sending an edgy vibration to the tips of my fingers. It couldn’t be any clearer who just came inside if a marching band preceded him. The energy he carried in rivaled the insidious screech in horror films as a glinting knife stabbed at its victim. Ronan must have had a bad day at work. Stomach clenching, I picked up the book, opened it to a random page, and pretended to devoutly read. My back was to the doorway, but I didn’t need to see it to know he’d silently entered the room. His presence settled