“Oh, I think I know dat statue,” said the young woman. “Is it da one with a ’ottom all covered in ’earls?”

Scarlett wasn’t sure exactly what the woman was trying to say, but she sent them off with a nod and wished them the best of luck.

“See?” said Aiko. “Look how happy you just made them.”

“But I lied to them,” said Scarlett.

“You’re missing the point of the game,” said Aiko. “They didn’t travel here for truth, they came for an adventure, and you just sent them on one. Maybe they won’t find anything, but perchance they will; the game sometimes has a way of rewarding people just for trying. Either way that couple is happier than you. I’ve been watching, and you’ve been sitting here as sour as rotten milk for the past hour.”

“You would be too if your sister was missing.”

“Oh, poor you. Here you are on a magical isle and all you can think of is what you don’t have.”

“But it’s my—”

“Your sister, I know,” said Aiko. “I also know you’ll find her at the end when all of this is over and you’ll wish you’d not spent your evenings sitting in this stinking tavern feeling sorry for yourself.”

It was the exact sort of thing Tella would have said. A masochistic part of Scarlett felt she owed her sister some sort of tithe made of misery, but maybe it was the opposite. Knowing Tella, she would have been more disappointed in Scarlett for not enjoying Legend’s isle.

“I’m not going to sit here all night,” Scarlett said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Is that someone late, or are you just very early?” Aiko raised two painted brows. “I hate to inform you of this, but I don’t think whoever it is you’re waiting for is going to be showing up.”

Scarlett’s eyes darted to the door for the hundredth time that evening, still hoping to see Julian walk through. She had been so sure he would come, but if there was a respectable time to wait for someone, she’d surpassed it.

Scarlett pushed up from her chair.

“Does this mean you’ve decided not to sit around anymore?” Aiko rose elegantly from her own seat, clutching her notebook close, as the back door to the tavern swung open once more.

A pair of giggling young women stepped in, followed by the last person Scarlett wanted to see. He stormed inside like a foul wind made of messy black clothes and mud-caked boots, more disheveled than he’d been the last time she’d seen him—Dante’s dark pants were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them, and his tailcoat was gone.

Scarlett remembered how Julian had said Dante wanted Legend’s wish to fix something that had happened during an earlier Caraval. Right now Dante looked more desperate than ever to win it.

Scarlett prayed his eyes would pass over her. After their last encounter she wasn’t ready for another confrontation with him; waiting for Julian had already sliced her nerves to ribbons and turned her dress black. But even as Scarlett hoped Dante wouldn’t notice her, her eyes continued to fall on him. On the sleeves he’d bunched up around his forearms, and the tattoos they exposed.

Specifically, a black tattoo shaped like a heart.

Follow the boy with a heart made of black.

Nigel’s words rushed back to Scarlett right as Dante’s eyes fell on her. The look he gave her was pure loathing. But rather than frightening Scarlett, it ignited something inside her; she imagined this was the game’s way of testing her resolve to play without Julian’s help.

When Dante disappeared out the tavern’s back door, Scarlett dashed outside after him. She didn’t realize how toasty it had been in the tavern until she escaped into the brittle evening. Crisp, like the first bite of a chilled apple, smelling just as sweet, with hints of burnt sugar weaving through the charcoal night air. Around her, the people on the street were as thick as a murder of crows.

Scarlett thought she glimpsed Dante slip onto a covered bridge, but once she reached the bridge it contained nothing but lantern light, and led to a disappointing dead end. All Scarlett found after she crossed it was an alley made of brick walls, and a cider cart manned by a cute boy with a monkey on his shoulder.

“Can I interest you in some burnt-sugar cider?” asked the boy. “It will make you see things more clearly.”

“Oh, no—I’m looking for someone, with tattoos all over his arms, all black clothes, and an angry look on his face.”

“I think he might have bought some cider last night, but I haven’t seen him tonight. Good luck!” called the boy as Scarlett darted back onto the bridge.

Once she reached the other side, she spied a number of young men with untidy black clothes—at this point in the game, everyone was starting to appear a bit ragged around the edges—but no one had arms covered in ink. Scarlett continued weaving through the crowd, until she caught sight of someone with what looked like a black heart tattoo heading up a set of emerald stairs a few shops past the Glass Tavern.

Picking up the hem of her skirt, Scarlett rushed to follow her black-hearted boy. She tore up the stairs and onto another covered bridge. But when she reached the other side of the bridge, all she found was another dead end and another cute boy, again with a cider cart and a monkey.

“Wait—” Scarlett paused. “Weren’t you just over there?” She motioned vaguely, no longer quite sure of where “over there” was anymore.

“I haven’t gone anywhere all night, but that bridge you just crossed moves quite often,” said the boy. He flashed his dimples and the monkey on his shoulder nodded.