“Oh,” her young grandfather mumbled, “Annalise.”

Scarlett had never heard her grandmother called that name; she’d always been just Anna. But something about the name Annalise rang familiar.

Then bells were ringing everywhere. Bells of mourning, in a world covered in mist and black roses.

The purple house was gone and Scarlett was on a new street, surrounded by people wearing black hats and even gloomier expressions.

“I knew they were full of evil,” said a man. “Rosa would never have died if they hadn’t come.”

Black rose petals rained on a funeral procession, and without being told who they were, Scarlett knew the man referred to the players of Caraval. A woman had died during Caraval’s long history. The year Caraval had stopped traveling, after rumors started that Legend had murdered her.

Rosa must have been that woman, thought Scarlett.

“This dream is just awful, isn’t it?” Tella reappeared once again, though now her image was ghostly sheer. “I’ve never really liked black. When I die, will you please tell everyone to wear brighter clothes at my funeral?”

“Tella, you’re not going to die,” Scarlett scolded.

Tella’s image flickered like a candle lacking confidence. “I might if you don’t win this game. Legend likes to—”

Tella vanished.

“Donatella!” Scarlett called for her sister. “Tella!” But she seemed to be gone for good this time. No more traces of her purple dress or blond curls. Just a funeral of endless gloom.

Scarlett could feel the gray press of everyone’s grief as she continued to listen, hoping to learn what Tella had been unable to say, as words of mourning switched to gossip.

“Sad, sad story,” whispered one woman to another. “When Rosa’s fiancé won the game, his prize was finding her in bed with Legend.”

“But I heard she was the one who called off their wedding,” said the other woman.

“She did, right after her fiancé caught them. Rosa said she was in love with Legend and wanted to be with him instead. But Legend laughed and said she’d gotten too carried away with the game.”

“I thought no one ever saw Legend,” said the other woman.

“No one sees him more than once; they say he wears a different face every game. Beautiful but cruel. I heard he was there when Rosa flung herself out the window, and he didn’t even try to stop her.”

“Monster.”

“I thought he pushed her,” said a third woman.

“Not physically,” said the first. “Legend likes to play twisted games with people, and one of his favorites is making girls fall in love with him. Rosa jumped the day after he discarded her, after her parents found out and refused to let her return home. Her fiancé blames himself, though. His servants say he moans Rosa’s name in his sleep every night.”

The three women turned as a young man trudged by at the very rear of the procession. His dark hair was not so long and his hands contained no ink from tattoos—no rose for Rosa—but Scarlett recognized him right away. Dante.

This must have been why he wanted to win the wish so badly, to bring his fiancée back to life.

Just then, Dante’s head cocked in Scarlett’s direction. But his wounded eyes did not fall on her. They roamed the crowd as if hunting. Searching through the thickening curtain of black flower petals. A soft puddle of them formed around Scarlett’s feet, and several petals covered Dante’s eyes as he walked past her. The flowers blinded him from seeing the one person whom Scarlett imagined he’d been looking for, a young man in a velvet-rimmed top hat only a few paces from where she stood.

All the air raced from Scarlett’s lungs. In every other dream Legend’s face had not been clear, but this time she could see him perfectly. His handsome face held no emotion, his light-brown eyes were void of warmth, no hint of a smile curved his lips; he was a shadow of the boy she’d come to know. Julian.

The world tasted like lies and ashes when Scarlett woke. Damp blankets clung to sweaty skin, wet with nightmares and visions of black roses. At least Aiko had not lied about remembering the dreams. Scarlett’s memories of her last moments alive were still blurry but her dreams were vivid. They felt as solid and real as the heavy arms encasing her.

Julian.

His hand rested just above her breast. Scarlett sucked in a sharp breath. His fingers were cool against her skin while the marble ice of his chest pressed to her back with an unbeating heart inside. Her body shuddered, but she didn’t so much as whimper, afraid it might wake him from his deadly slumber.

She could picture the way he’d looked in her dream, wearing that top hat. A callous expression. Exactly the type of look she would have pictured on Legend, and Julian was certainly as attractive as she’d always imagined Legend to be.

She recalled the innkeeper’s frightened eyes when she’d first seen Julian. Scarlett had thought it was because they were Legend’s guests, but what if it was because Julian really was Legend? He knew so much about Caraval. He’d known what to do when she’d been dying. And Julian could have easily put the roses in her room.

A sudden heartbeat pressed against her back.

Julian’s heart.

Or was it Legend’s heart?

No.

Scarlett closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She’d been warned about this, the game playing tricks on her. It couldn’t be true. She didn’t know when it had happened, but somewhere, at some point, in this strange world full of impossible, Julian had started to mean something to her. She’d begun to trust him. But if Julian really was Legend, everything significant to her had only been part of a game to him.