Amoret didn’t know if she should be impressed or concerned. She mostly felt annoyed as her gaze adjusted to the abandoned dark, the shadows taking shape as furniture. A lounge by the wall. Beside it, a free-standing forged iron fireplace grate. Crammed bookshelves. A desk. 

Amoret stepped closer to the desk and ran her hand over the oak. It was an exact replica of the one in her room at Rosemoor, with less wear, no stains. Someone had recently built it. Used it, too. The inkwell sitting on top was empty, as if the writer valued every last drop of ink. Their choice of utensil, a swan quill. 

Straining to see what they wrote, she leaned over and opened the curtain to let in moonlight. Her name—Amoret Thorne—had been written once without anything else before or after it, as if she had been a single thought so encompassing nothing else had been necessary. 

She ignored her bristling heart and brushed the note aside to access the secret compartment. It flipped open easily, but unlike the empty one in Rosemoor, this one held an old photograph of a couple and their two boys. A family. The mother’s soft smile drew her in, so small it could’ve been seen as sad if not for the affectionate hand she laid on the youngest’s shoulder. 

Sven Blackmoor.

Amoret traced her finger over his unfamiliar curls, his white uniform, his boots. Then his brother. 

Kallon. 

Despite being the older son, he stood an inch or so shorter, with dark wavy hair and softer features. A single mole dotted his right cheek. 

Amoret felt her throat constrict as she took in his hardened stare, so focused she would’ve believed him if he told her he’d been looking right through the camera one hundred years ago and straight at her peeping. Guilt almost made her place the photo down, but his father stopped her. He wore an oddly familiar ring. 

The wood behind her creaked.

Amoret swiveled to find a ghost. She recognized his windswept hair and misplaced uniform immediately. He’d been the one in the Blackmoor graveyard, but if this photo proved anything, he wasn’t Sven. 

“You tricked me,” she said with a hint of admiration.

The boy raised his brows. “I never lied. Just didn’t correct you.”

“You’re a ghost, not a fairy. Your intentions matter.”

He flinched, the change in expression a first since they’d met three days prior. 

“Did Kallon send you to spy on me?” she asked. 

“On the contrary”—the ghost flickered in and out of existence—“he told me to stay away.”