“How did you get in here?” I ask.

He smiles, lips thin under a stylishly clipped mustache. He is older, handsome in the way of Albens. Carefully styled black-and-gray hair sets off his pale skin, so white it is nearly blue in this light. There is nothing remarkable about him, though I know I’ve seen him before. “I should think myself perfectly capable of entering my own study.”

“But there are no doors!”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows as he stirs a cup of tea—where did the tray come from? That coffee table was empty before, I know it was. And then I see over his shoulder, plain as day, a door.

I stumble forward and collapse on the couch. “My apologies, sir. There is something wrong with me. There was a bird, and no door, and—” I pull off a glove and put my hand to my forehead, but it feels cool to the touch. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“I found you outside the conservatory. Fearing you had too much to drink and that others might take advantage, I had my man carry you to the carriage and brought you here.” He smiles knowingly and I try not to bristle—one glass of fizzy champagne would never render me unconscious.

“I thank you for your gracious actions, sir, but I cannot account for the circumstances.” I shake my head, remembering the birds, and the man, and the dreams. “I suspect I was drugged.”

“Doubtless.” But his smile indicates he doubts it very much. There is something wrong with his face, with the way it moves—almost mechanical, the lines of his eyes not matching the expressions, his lips not quite keeping pace with the words he speaks. “Sugar?”

He holds out a delicate teacup and I take it, staring down at the milky brown liquid as though it has answers for me. I set it on the table without drinking any, and then stand. “I should be going. My friends will be worried.” I’m unnerved and have no desire to remain in a room alone with a man I do not know.

“Sit down,” he says.

I sit.

“Drink your tea,” he says.

I reach for the cup and bring it to my lips, but smash them shut before I can take a sip. My arms trembling, I set the tea back down on the table. “I am leaving,” I say, and now I am certain I am still trapped in a dream, one of those horrible nightmares where I tell my body to run but it does not listen to me. I force myself to stand, every movement slow and labored, like the very air around me has solidified.

The man laughs, and the film around his face parts for a split second. I see the sharp teeth and sharper eyes of my nightmares.

“You,” I whisper. Wake up, wake up, oh please, Jessamin, wake up.

“Stubborn. Any good Alben girl would have downed the whole pot of tea at the slightest suggestion. I’ve spent a remarkable amount of force on you.” He cocks his head, the movement like a bird, and his blue eyes flash to black.

My legs shake. I am telling them, screaming at them to move toward the door, fighting the overwhelming urge to drink that accursed tea.

“You may as well be comfortable and sit. You’ll wear yourself out, and we’ve barely begun.”

I strain for a moment longer until I realize the door behind him has disappeared once more. I slump down to the couch, sitting on my hands to keep them away from the tea.

“I should very much like to wake up now,” I say to no one in particular, because I am done dealing with this nightmare.

“It is a puzzle,” the nightmare man says, and I avoid looking at him by staring at the bookshelves and trying to determine why they unnerve me so. “I can’t understand why he would notice you. You’re utterly without potential for a man like him.”

I count the spines: twenty-five across. I count the same row again: thirty-three. Again: twenty-seven. And yet I can detect no movement, no change.

“How did you catch Lord Ackerly’s affections?”

He succeeds in yanking back my attention. “Is he going to show up, too? This dream keeps getting worse.” I’ve reached for the teacup again. Furious with myself, I swipe it off the table to the floor. There. No more tea to tempt my wayward hands.

“It is puzzling. I shouldn’t think a girl like you would be more than a trifle to him. Poor Lord Ackerly, my great challenge. He’s been untouchable all this time, only to trip and drop the key to his undoing.”

My head aches where the silver comb is digging into my scalp, and I reach back to pull it out. Several hairs come away with it. I pull them free from the comb’s prongs. Wake up, wake up.

“Give them here,” he says, holding out his hand, and I’ve placed the hairs there before I can stop myself. “Let’s add them to the collection, shall we?” He opens a polished ebony box and places the hairs gently next to my blue ribbon and the strands already there.

“That’s mine.”

“I am pleased to see my taste is impeccable. The dress was the final test for Ackerly.” He reaches out and fingers the gauzy material of my skirts, and my stomach turns.

I think perhaps this is real, and I wish, oh, how I wish it were a nightmare.

He continues. “I couldn’t know whether you were important enough to work, whether our coldhearted friend had fallen far enough to care. It seemed improbable. But shadows never lie, and the way you looked last night sealed his fate. For that I thank you.” He bends and takes my ungloved hand in his, bringing it to his lips. His mouth on my skin feels so cold it burns, or so hot it freezes. I cannot tell the difference.