With dreaming Geoffrey in tow, I return to the summer house. Dressed in his tuxedo, he’s as dashing as I remember. I’m back in my ball gown so Geoffrey will think this is a memory inside of his dream.

He glowers at Stanford like he recognizes his enemy. Tucking my arm into the crook of his elbow, I try to calm Geoffrey with my touch.

Mid-stroll around the room, Madison waves at us.

“What are you doing?” Stanford glowers.

“I’ve only had visions of the book. I need to lock in to its energy in order to find it. There are thousands of titles in this library. I’ll try to summon the right one. Let’s see, how did that spell go?” She taps her chin like she’s trying to remember the words. “Right. Books of old, stories already told, if you are the one for me, fly, fly down to me.”

Making eye contact with me, Madison points at the books on the shelves above Stanford’s head.

I whisper to the Geoffrey next to me. “Let’s have some fun. Have you ever wanted to float?”

He blinks at me for a second before a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “You’ve had too much champagne.”

“The bubbles will help us fly.” I lift off the ground and he lets me drag him off the floor.

“You’re crazy.” He squeezes my hand. “I love you.”

Heart clench.

“Save the sweet words for later. Let’s make a mess.”

I slide a beautiful leather-bound copy of War and Peace off of the shelf until it tips over the edge and drops on Stanford’s head.

“Ouch,” he yells, rubbing the place of impact. Glancing down at the book resting on his shoe, he complains, “This is Tolstoy. Your spell didn’t work.”

“Let me try again.” Scrunching up her face, Madison pretends to concentrate.

“That’s our cue.” I slide out another book and aim it at Stanford’s head.

Geoffrey laughs and joins me. His aim is better than mine.

More books drop off the shelves. Stanford dodges some of the biggest books, but can’t escape the volume of our attack. Even though he cowers in the middle of the room with his head covered, books pile at his feet.

“Call them off! This isn’t working,” he shouts and crawls behind a sofa.

“Ouch, I’ve been hit, too.” Madison lies. “Books of old, authors dead, please stop hitting me in the head.”

Exhilarated and laughing, Geoffrey and I pause mid throw. Energy sparks and glimmers around my hands. My chest rises and falls with rapid breathing my lungs don’t need.

Madison grins at us before speaking in a more serious tone. “Oh, look. There it is.”

Stanford stands and then brushes off his suit. “Where?”

She points at a section we didn’t disturb. “The only plain black spine.”

He slips on the books on the floor, nearly face-planting.

In smug triumph, he snatches the book from the shelf. “Stolen from the Bradfords by unscrupulous witches over a century ago, finally returned to its rightful owner.”

What actual bullshit is he spouting?

“Your family? But I thought it was a magical book,” Madison says.

Ignoring her, he pulls an archival sleeve from an interior pocket and slides the book inside. At least he’s not opening up the dummy book here.

“Enough questions. Let’s go.” He straightens his back and runs a hand over his hair. Not caring that he’s stepping on antique and rare books, he stomps through the mess to the door.

He’s the worst. The absolute worst.

Geoffrey growls beside me, then disappears. I worry he’s woken up from his impromptu nap until he reappears in front of Stanford. With a wink and a grin in my direction, he sticks out his leg to trip the book thief.

If there’s anything that pisses Geoffrey off, it’s someone disrespecting books. The man has devoted his life to an archive.

Stanford stumbles and almost finds his balance. Until Geoffrey shoves him from behind. I open the front door, narrowly slamming it into his head. Stanford falls through it and sprawls onto the front landing.

Geoffrey gives me a high five and we collapse into a fit of laughter on the leather chesterfield.

Madison joins in, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thank you.”

Leaning my head on Geoffrey’s shoulder, I mouth “You’re welcome” to her.

REM sleep is only about ninety minutes long. I want a few minutes alone with dreaming Geoffrey before he awakes.

“You could say goodbye,” Madison shouts as we fade away. “Fine. I guess I’ll see you around.”

Phyllis returns and chats with Madison. Taking advantage of the distraction, I quickly rearrange the library by returning every book to its proper home. Geoffrey watches me buzz around the room, a silly grin on his face. He opens a random book and shows it to me.

Inside is a loose bookplate declaring it to be one of mine.

This book is the property of Miss Alice W.

He’s brilliant.

I drop the bookplate on the floor and hope that Madison finds it. It’s the simplest way to introduce myself and give her a clue about my connection to this house.

“Did you drop something?” Phyllis points at the page.

“How is that possible?” Madison’s eyes widen as she realizes the library is back to normal.

When she picks up the single piece of paper out of place, she reads it and then stares at me.

I point at the bookplate and back to myself.

“Alice?”

With a happy smile, I confirm it’s me.

“Nice to meet you, Alice. Thank you for all of your help.”

I nod again and then flicker out of the room.

After leaving the summer house library, we return to Geoffrey’s office.

“Is this real?” he asks, holding my hand.

I nod, unable to speak, afraid to wake him from this dream. His sleeping form is sprawled across his desk, his head resting on a stack of books.

“Will you come back?” He brushes his lips against my temple.

Leaning into his touch, I nod again.

“Tonight?”

“Every night,” I whisper. “Look for me in your dreams.”

“Promise?” His eyes search mine.

“Always.” I stretch up to press my lips to his.

As I watch, his long, dark lashes flutter and his eyes slowly open. Blinking, he stretches his arms and back before sitting up in the desk chair.

“That was both the strangest and best dream,” he mumbles, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Alice would’ve loved it.”

He doesn’t believe the words I whispered to him as he slept.

Once she’s safely back in the Society’s headquarters, Madison details the day’s events. With each new detail about his father, Andrew’s body coils with rage. When the others laugh over my antics, he doesn’t even smile.

“Oh, and Alice introduced herself to me.” Madison pokes Andrew’s shoulder to get his attention.

I hold my breath. Unable to look at Geoffrey, I focus on Andrew instead. He slowly turns from the window. “Who is Alice?”

Is everyone holding their breath? The room feels impossibly still like our hearts have collectively stopped beating, waiting for Madison’s answer.

“My ghost. She showed me her name on a bookplate in one of the damaged hardcovers. Miss Alice W.”

This is the moment when Geoffrey will realize I’m here. I’ve been here the entire time. I’m not gone, just different. I’ve waited fifteen years for this revelation. Finally, I allow myself to glance at him. Truthfully, I’m not sure what I expect to see on his face. Joy. Love. Relief.

Instead, he’s scowling, his mouth forming an ugly line of disgust.

“Could it be Winthrop?” Sam asks Tate.

“Or Wildes?” Madison says to Andrew.

“Don’t forget Wardwell,” Geoffrey adds. “At least we’ve narrowed it down to the W’s. We can research this in the archive.”

What the actual what? Alice Wardwell? Who is that?

It’s me, you idiot. You know it’s me.

What game is he playing?

Karma is real and she’s not amused.

Stanford Bradford was attacked in his condo and is in a coma at Mass General. Apparently, he fell and has a head injury.

Perhaps he was pushed. I swear it wasn’t me, although I’m having trouble feeling terrible for him.

If his fall has something to do with the black book, I’m worried the people working with him are becoming more violent.

Weeks have passed and he’s still unconscious. Despite no one at the Society being a fan of Stanford, the lack of answers and the lingering coma have everyone on edge. Based on her role in Madison’s kidnapping, we’re all certain Mrs. Putnam is involved. I highly doubt she’d resort to physical violence herself, but she does seem the type to hire a non-union henchman and not tip him.

Honestly, for purely selfish reasons I want him to live. I cannot handle the idea of ghost Stanford haunting the same places I do. That’s a big fat nope from me. I’m not saying it would happen, but if there’s even the slightest, tiniest, fractional fraction of a chance, then I hope he lives forever and ever. Amen.