Gideon stalked toward the fabrics, where a dozen leather-bound notebooks lay stacked on a shelf.

He hadn’t touched these notebooks since his parents died. They were full of his father’s notes and his mother’s sketches, detailing her original designs.

Gideon lifted the only blank notebook from the shelf, grabbed a piece of charcoal from the jar next to it, and pulled a stool up to the worktable.

If his mother were designing a dress for Rune Winters, what kind of dress would it be?

He started sketching. The black charcoal burst across the white page as he thought of Rune on the love seat: her rose-gold hair flaming in the light of the lamps; her skin flushing as his fingers traced her; her pulse stumbling as he leaned in to kiss her.

Again, he scolded himself for intimidating her. But she was the one who’d invited him back to her room. She had summoned the wine.

She had made the first move.

Either way, he needed to keep up this charade. If she was the Moth and the one leaving corpses scattered across the city, the closer he got to her, the easier finding evidence of her crimes would be. And if she wasn’t, someone close to her likely was, and it would still be in his best interest to infiltrate her inner circles by courting her.

If she’d let him, that is.

Gideon’s plan was forming on the pages of his mother’s sketchbook.

He kept drawing until he’d ripped out more pages than what remained in the book. He kept drawing until the side of his hand and wrist were black with charcoal and his spine hurt from bending over so long.

It was dawn by the time he had a design he didn’t hate. One he could work with.

The question was: would she like it?

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FIFTEEN RUNE

RUNE’S RIDING BOOTS CRUNCHED the stone path cutting through the university’s campus, where she was meeting Verity and Alex. The blustery wind eddied the dirt into the air and swirled the hem of her riding cape.

The pink granite face of Summer Hall greeted Rune, its studded wooden doors shut tight. Hoisting her satchel higher on her shoulder, Rune pulled open both doors and stepped inside. Purple wallpaper greeted her, patterned with giant dahlias, and the green tiles clicked beneath her boots. There were four dormitories on the university’s campus. Summer Hall was known for its pastel colors and botanical patterns.

If the moment you walk in you’re accosted by flowers on all sides, you’ve found the right place, Verity told her the first time she ever gave Rune directions.

She smiled at the girl at the front desk, who waved her past, used to Rune’s frequent visits. The walls changed to blue irises, then yellow sunflowers as Rune turned down halls, making her way to Verity’s room.

She knocked on the small door, and when it swung in, Verity looked out, squinting. Her dark brown curls were flat on one side, and her spectacles were missing.

She looked like she’d just woken up.

“Sorry I’m early,” said Rune.

Verity blinked. “I completely forgot about our meeting.”

“Oh! Do you want to reschedule?”

Verity shook her head. “No, no. Come in. Just … step over the mess.”

Rune followed her friend into the tiny, closet-sized dorm room, shutting the door behind her. Clothes lay in heaps across the few feet of floor between the wall and the bed. Piles of books leaned against the walls and glass jars crammed the shelves. Some jars held living things within them—insects, small rodents—while others held dead things preserved in liquid.

Rune spotted Henry, the mimic spider, in the biggest jar. Already snacking on some winged thing he’d caught in his web.

Verity shoved the scattered clothes into one pile, making room for Rune on the floor.

“I’m sorry for last night,” she said, kicking aside a stocking.

“Oh? What for?” Shrugging off her satchel, Rune pulled out a spell book.

“When I saw Gideon in your bedroom, I overreacted.” Verity sat on her small bed, staring straight ahead at the white roses on her wallpaper. “I remembered the Blood Guard soldiers coming for my sisters, and I guess I panicked.”

Verity rarely spoke about her mother’s betrayal of her two eldest daughters—witches, both. All three de Wilde sisters had been extremely close.

With the heavy tome still in her arms, Rune sat down next to Verity and reached for her hand, which was ice-cold. Rune rubbed it between her warm ones. It was always so drafty in this room.

“What happened to your sisters was horrible,” said Rune. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Verity shook her head. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you. You’re the closest thing I have to family now.”

Throwing her arm around Verity, Rune pulled her close, trying to comfort and warm her simultaneously, noticing how bony her shoulders were getting. Wasn’t Verity’s scholarship supposed to include meals along with boarding?

“You’re the closest thing I have to family, too,” said Rune, leaning her head against Verity’s. “You and Alex.”

Verity nodded to the spell book sitting on Rune’s lap. “Do you need help with a spell?”

Rune opened the book and turned to the spells she’d been practicing: Picklock and Deadbolt.

Across the page were two symbols, each one an inversion of the other.

“They’re Minora spells, so I should be able to cast them using the blood you gave me, right? But when I try, it’s like wading through sludge, and nothing happens.”

Verity took the book and pulled it onto her lap. “These are more complicated Minoras. You probably need fresher blood. Can you show me?”

Nodding, Rune reached into the inner pocket of her riding cape and pulled out a glass vial, half-full of blood.

Verity waited, pulling her legs onto the mattress and crossing them beneath her. While Verity was not a witch herself, her sisters had always let her sit in on their spell castings. Verity had gleaned far more from her sisters than Rune had ever gleaned from Nan. So when Rune had trouble with a spell, Verity was the person she came to.

After pushing up her sleeves, Rune rose from the bed and approached the door to Verity’s room. Verity was an expert at cleaning blood from any surface, so Rune didn’t hesitate. After locking it manually, she pulled the cork stopper out of the glass vial, dabbed her index finger in the blood, lifted her hand, and began drawing the symbol for Picklock on the wood of the door: three interconnected lines—two straight, one curved.

Casting spells was like playing a musical instrument, or cooking a delicious meal. The more you studied and practiced your craft, the more skilled you became. Or that’s how it was supposed to work under normal circumstances.

Because Rune used old blood, her spells were weaker than if she had a fresh source. Fresh blood, and a lot of it, was required for more powerful spells.

Making things more difficult was being restricted to the small amount of blood from each monthly bleeding, limiting the number of spells she could cast, as well as the type.

Mirages, for example, were illusions. They tampered with people’s perceptions. Mirages were Rune’s spells of choice because they were less complicated and required less blood.

Minoras, on the other hand, did things to change the material world—like locking and unlocking a door—and were more challenging. A Minora required the fresh blood of the witch casting it. Using Verity’s borrowed blood was a way to cheat, because blood from someone else always boosted the power of a spell. But it only worked so well, and only some of the time.

It was like trying to cook a mouthwatering feast when the only ingredients on hand were some withered root vegetables, stale bread, and smelly fish. You could cook the food, but it would be neither mouthwatering nor a feast.