“The gorgon has risen,” Jamie whispered.

There was definitely something about Ronan’s mother that suggested mythological beast, but I wouldn’t have gone with gorgon. A head full of snakes would have looked way too untidy on top of that perfectly prim tweed skirt suit. Not a hair in her tasteful chignon was out of place. No, if she were any kind of creature, she’d be a dragon. A small dragon, as she was definitely several feet shorter than everyone in my family, but there was something reptilian in the coldness of her gaze and the high, sculpted arch of her cheekbones. Nothing in her profile would have looked amiss on a marble bust.

“Well, if it isna my favorite ladyship!” Kit walked down the hallway toward her, arms outstretched, with the decanter clutched in one hand. “A vision in tweed, as always. Positively younger every time I see you.”

“Unhand the Scotch, Christopher.” Ronan’s mom neatly sidestepped Kit’s hug. Rebuffed, he placed the decanter down on a random side table, next to a wooden mallard.

“Mum!” Ronan took several long strides to join us, Dusty and Mom trailing slightly behind him. Looking at the two of them together, it seemed impossible that tiny Mrs. Dunleavy (was that what I was supposed to call her? I had no idea) had birthed a giant like Ronan. “Are you sure you should be up and about? I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

“I am not feeling well. But circumstances have changed, obviously. My home was no longer safe. The staff alerted me the minute Christopher arrived.”

The staff? Oh my. Well, I obviously knew there was a staff. I had seen people in starched white shirts and gray slacks all around the place. And it would have been impossible for one person to keep something this big clean. But still, staff. It just sounded so…fancy.

“Och, Mrs. D.!” Kit groused. “Break one priceless family heirloom—”

“Or seven,” Jamie cheerfully interjected.

“Or eat a wee bit of cake—”

“That was intended to serve two hundred and fifty people, including, but not limited to, the Duke of York,” Jamie countered.

“Didna eat the whole thing now, did I?” Kit said defensively.

“No, just the middle.”

Kit scoffed. “Middle’s the best part, is it no?”

“You could have waited until it was time for pudding, like the rest of us, without scooping out the pastry’s innards like an impatient barbarian,” Jamie scolded.

“All I’m saying is,” Kit insisted loudly, “make a few wee mistakes, and a fellow feels like he’s on bloody AMBER Alert forever. Hardly seems fair, does it? A few wee mistakes, weighed against the balance of a lifetime of friendship and devotion?”

“I think AMBER Alert is for missing children.”

Everyone stared at me. Right. Apparently, I was not part of this conversation.

“Hmmmmmm.” Despite being the shortest person in this awkwardly clustered group in the middle of a hallway, Ronan’s mom somehow managed to look down her nose at all of us. Terrifying. Weirdly, though, her eyes lit up when they landed on Jamie. “You’re looking well this morning, Jamie.”

“Erm. Thanks.” He reddened. Well, I guess we knew who Ronan’s mom’s favorite was. And it certainly wasn’t Kit Kirby.

“Will your charming father be joining us soon? I had so hoped he would be able to arrive early. He is well aware, I trust, that Dunyvaig will always be a home to him.”

“Very kind of you. But I think he’s…busy.”

“Of course, of course,” Ronan’s mom demurred. “I would expect nothing less from a man in his position.”

His position? I shot Jamie a look, and he shrugged and mouthed something that looked like “business” in response.

“Well, I’m sure glad you’re feeling good enough to be up and about!” Dusty said, the nerves audible in her voice through a veil of false cheer. Was Dusty scared of Ronan’s mom? I had never seen Dusty less than 100 percent confident in a social situation. It was disconcerting.

“I most certainly am not.” Mrs. Dunleavy turned the full force of her icy gaze on Dusty, who quailed in response, her smile faltering. God, I almost felt bad for my sister. Imagine having that as a mother-in-law.

“I feel simply horrid,” Ronan’s mother continued, wrapping a tartan shawl-like thing tighter around her shoulders, “but when one’s home is in danger, one must rise to the occasion.”

“In danger?!” Kit protested. “Danger?! Hardly. It’s not as if I go round laying waste to civilizations!”

“Kit Kirby: The Desolation of Smaug,” Jamie whispered.

A snorty bark of a laugh escaped against my will. Everyone stared at me. Again. The camera was still rolling, and it hadn’t missed a moment of my idiocy.

“Ah, yes.” Ronan cleared his throat. “Ye havena met the rest of Dusty’s family yet. Mum, this is Dusty’s sister, Dylan.”

Slowly, Mrs. Dunleavy extended a fine-boned hand. I shook it gently, feeling positively gargantuan in comparison. Was I supposed to curtsy? Oh well. Too late. A little bit of a How to Interact with the Nobility guide would have been really helpful, TRC. Although they were probably hoping we would all go full-on Ugly American and embarrass Ronan and his family.

“Dusty. Dylan. What…interesting names you girls have.”

Oh, “interesting.” I knew that “interesting.” That was the exact same “interesting” Krystal Hooper used to describe Heaven’s first-day-of-school outfit last year.

“When Ronan told me he was bringing home a girl called Dusty,” she continued, “I thought, dear God, is it Cinderella?” Her laugh sounded like ice cubes tumbling into a glass. No one else joined in. I locked eyes with Dusty, who looked down, nervously fiddling with her hair.

“They’re named after two of my favorite singers,” Mom said gently, tactful as always. “Dusty Springfield and Bob Dylan.”

“Not Dylan Thomas?! I’ve been deceived!” Jamie wailed, quietly enough that no one seemed to notice. We were getting good at having our own conversations outside of everyone else’s.

“Named after singers? How…unusual.” Ah, “unusual,” the even less polite cousin of the bitchy “interesting.” “Ronan is, of course, named after his late father.” Ronan placed a comforting hand on his mom’s shoulder. She patted it perfunctorily. “To have named your daughters after singers, I imagine you must have been something of a…oh, what is that term…groupie?”

“Mum!” Ronan gasped.

Rude! So rude! Mom was obviously not a groupie. Or old enough to be Bob Dylan’s groupie.

Mom, to her credit, just laughed. “No, nothing like that. But much like Dusty Springfield, the only one who could ever reach me, was, in fact, the son of a preacher man.”

“You are referring to the girls’ father, I take it?” Ronan’s mom sniffed. I stiffened, involuntarily, at the rare mention of my dad. Mom had obviously made this joke before, so the list of things I knew about him remained pretty much set at:

1. son of a preacher man (minister? pastor? unclear)

2. tall (obviously)

3. a complete and total jerk (again, obvious)

“And he is…”

“Not in the picture,” Mom said firmly.

Not in the picture. Right. Mom’s standard response. He’d been in the picture when Dusty was little, then disappeared shortly after I was born. So thanks for contributing to my birth, I guess, but otherwise, this man who was technically my father and allegedly existed had given me exactly one big fat load of nothing. And one not-so-little fear that I was the reason he’d left.

“Hmmmmm.” I was beginning to dread that “hmmmmm,” the way it whistled judgmentally through Ronan’s mom’s nose. So, maybe my mom hogged the bathroom and put way too much stock in personal appearance, but when you got right down to it, she was basically a baller. She’d somehow managed to keep me and Dusty from killing each other, gotten us through school, and, you know, clothed and fed us, all while being a picture-perfect cohost on Mississippi’s number-one-rated morning talk show. And did all of that without the benefit of a staff. I stepped a little closer to her, protectively. Not that she really needed my help. Mom had never met an awkward social situation she couldn’t sail through gracefully. Like I said, pretty much a baller.

“Tell me more about these divine window treatments, Florence,” Mom said smoothly, changing the subject. Mrs. Dunleavy’s nostrils quivered at the familiar use of “Florence,” as I was sure Mom knew they would. She was a master of that prized Southern tradition of an insult so subtle you’d almost miss it. “Dear sweet Ronan couldn’t recall where they’d come from, but I was sure you’d know.”

Firmly, Mom steered Florence, as I would now think of her, away toward the windows. It seemed like the rest of the group let out a collective sigh of relief.

Something gurgled. I looked at Dusty. She’d turned completely green. Like a green I hadn’t seen since the infamous Dollywood Barf-A-Thon the summer before her senior year.

“Excuse me, y’all, I just—I’m—going to find a bathroom.” Dusty clapped a hand over her mouth and rushed out. Ronan hurried behind her, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Poor thing. Doesna stand a chance,” Kit clucked sympathetically.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t stand a chance?”

“No offense meant, Dylan, please! Nothing against your sister. Nothing at all. Lovely girl. And quite a looker.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I interrupted him. I’d heard quite enough on the subject of Dusty’s looks to last me a lifetime. “Get to the point.”

“I’m simply saying, that as divine as dear Dusty is, and as pure as her love for Ronan is, I’m sure, she isna exactly Lady Dunleavy’s first choice of bride for her precious only son, is she?”

“Why not?”

Kit and Jamie exchanged a look. Okay, I wasn’t dumb, I knew why not, but it was hard to imagine perfect Dusty not being good enough for anyone. I could have filled this castle with mamas in Mississippi who would die to have Dusty marry their sons.

“Let’s see.” Kit started ticking things off on his fingers. “She isna aristocratic, for one, and she’s far too attractive, in that obvious, American way—”

“Nothing worse than being obviously attractive.” Jamie shook his head. “It’s so terribly vulgar.”

“Ronan’s mom doesn’t like her because she’s too pretty?”

“Much too pretty,” Kit agreed.

“It would be better if she only looked attractive in dim lighting,” Jamie added. “Whilst one was squinting.”

“I can never tell if you’re being serious.”

“I’m hardly ever serious,” Jamie said, with a completely straight face.

“I’m dead serious. Pardon me, lovey,” Kit addressed the mallard on the table, moving it aside to rescue the Scotch decanter. “It’s her bloody worst nightmare, is it no?” He started walking back toward the first room we’d been in, Jamie and I following. “Blond bimbo—no offense, mind—comes crashing in from the colonies to steal her only son. And brings along a tacky television crew. The horrors!”

“That’s not Dusty’s fault,” I said stubbornly, no idea why I was defending her. I’d called her way worse than a bimbo. “Florence didn’t have to let the camera crew in here. She had a choice.”

Kit and Jamie exchanged a glance.

“It’s not as if she really had a choice, though, did she?”

“Kit,” Jamie warned.

“Common knowledge, is it no? Simply bringing the wee sister up to speed.” He nodded at my monstrous T-shirt. “They needed the money,” Kit said bluntly. “Takes an awful lot of dosh to keep an old pile of bricks like this going.”

“So Ronan’s family isn’t rich?”

“Rich is a relative term, is it no?” Kit took a meditative swig straight from the decanter. Jamie winced. “Rich for regular folk, sure. But not quite enough to keep up with the crowned heads of Europe. Or turn the heat on, apparently.”

“That’s quite enough,” Jamie said firmly.

“Ooo, sorry. I’m being vulgar, talking about money.” Kit swayed slightly from side to side. “I’ve offended his delicate sensibilities.”

“Why don’t you take a seat, then, Kit?”

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Kit muttered grumpily, but allowed Jamie to steer him back into the sitting room and toward an overstuffed love seat printed with cabbage roses that looked like it had come straight out of Meemaw’s assisted-living facility. Guess not everything in a castle was classy. Kit slumped into a seated position, cradling the decanter like a baby. Gently, Jamie pulled a plaid throw off the arm of the love seat and tucked him in.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. He just needs a bit of a lie-in.”

“Okay,” I said skeptically. Passing out before noon seemed problematic to me. But what did I know?

“Come on.” Jamie grabbed my hand. I was startled by the contact; he was surprisingly warm. “Fingers still frozen, Little Match Girl?”

“I’m in recovery. Someone abandoned me at a train station, remember?”

“I’m ignoring that slanderous insult!” Kit cracked one eye open. Not asleep after all. “You’re in collusion, the two of you. That’s what you’re doing. Colluding. Trying to ruin my good name.” He settled back in among the cabbage rose pillows, pulling the blanket up to nestle beneath his plump chin as his eyes fluttered closed.

“A bit like having a giant goateed baby, isn’t it?” Jamie said fondly.

“A giant drunk goateed baby. You sure he’s okay?”

“Positive. I honestly think he’s more sleep-deprived than anything else. He’s not usually awake quite this early.”

“Fair enough. I’m certainly in no position to judge anyone who falls asleep on a couch.”

“Absolutely not. You were positively comatose last evening.”

The images that comment conjured up necessitated a brisk change of subject.

“So, what is he, your uncle?”

“Not at all. Ronan and Kit are childhood best friends. Making Kit another—”

“Old family friend?” I supplied.

“Precisely. They’ve always treated me a bit like an annoying younger brother. Never quite part of the gang enough to be included, but always part of the gang enough to be harassed.”

“You don’t have to explain being a harassed younger sibling to me. I could write a book about it. Okay. I think I’ve got it. How everybody knows one another, I mean. Finally.” I nodded slowly. “They should have given us a family tree or something.”

“That would have been far too helpful. And put them at cross-purposes. I imagine their aim all along will be to make us look foolish.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I agreed grimly. “So…what now?”

“What now…” Jamie repeated. “For starters, I think we’ve well and truly lost the tour.”

“Yeah, if the tour is even happening anymore.” I realized we’d also well and truly lost the camera. Things were looking up.

“We were never going to discover anything even remotely mysterious with that lot hanging about.”

“Totally. Mom would murder me if I started randomly pulling books off of bookshelves to see if they swung open to reveal secret rooms. Way too messy. She’s practically allergic to clutter.”

“Bookshelves!” Jamie exclaimed delightedly. “You’re a marvelous genius, of course. We’ve simply got to pull books until something reveals itself. Come on, then, Dylan!”

He grabbed my hand again and took off at a run, narrowly avoiding an end table holding a china shepherdess that was most likely priceless.

“Where are we going?” Were we holding hands? I mean, obviously, we were holding hands. But more in a grabbing-and-pulling way than in a walking-romantically way. So that probably didn’t count as hand-holding. Not that it mattered or whatever.

“The library!”

“The library? But wasn’t that the room we were in? With the shelves? And the Beauty and the Beast ladder?”

“No, no, of course not, that was the sitting room.” Jamie led me through the halls at breakneck speed, twisting and turning suddenly, the slap of our sneakers muted by the plush carpet of the hall runner.

“Silly me. Just assumed the giant room with the endless bookshelves was a library.”

“The nineteenth-century Dunleavys in particular were markedly bookish. I think rather a lot of them would have been scholars if they hadn’t been required to run the estate. They amassed quite a collection. Unfortunately, most of it’s botany. Terribly dull. Ah, here we are.”

Simultaneously, Jamie pushed open a heavy wooden door and pulled me through it. A gasp of surprise escaped my lips.