As Victoria unlatched her trunk, the mingled scents of camphor and perfume rose from it. She blinked rapidly, having spent far too much time crying this week since her brother had gone missing. It was only the pungent aroma, she told herself, that was causing tears to jump to her eyes. That and nothing else.

The blond curls of Dolores, her maid, bobbed up and down as she moved about the room, darting between corners to pick up dropped garments and fold them neatly. victoria wished she could help, wished for the distraction of physical labour to take away the ache in her chest and the lump in her throat or at least relieve those sensations for a time. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

"Dolores," she said just as the door flew open without so much as a knock.

It was Francisco Mendoza, the sight of him making her heavy heart rise in her chest a bit, thudding with more fervour. "Excuse me for barging in."

Dolores looked scandalized. In her head, Tori could almost hear her maid saying, What would your mother think of you having a man in your bedroom? I send you to a foreign country and you lose all sense!

"I'll be quite alright, Dolores." She fought to keep her voice steady, fought to keep the hole in her chest from caving in and flooding her with panic, worry, and fear. Dragging in a deep breath, she tried to smile convincingly. It must have worked, because Dolores nodded, slipping out of the room after saying a few words to Francisco. "What did she say to you?"

Victoria wrapped her arms around her torso, feeling like the room's temperature had dropped a few degrees suddenly. Although the climate here was scorching, the windows were sealed shut, no curtain moving an inch without any breeze entering her chambers. Perhaps it was the way Francisco was looking at her, that intense, dark gaze that raised gooseflesh on her arms.

"She warned me not to take advantage of a delicate damsel who was in a vulnerable state, what with Blake..." his voice trailed off. Her expression must have wiped itself clean of the false smile because he crossed the room to embrace her. "Blake isn't dead. Celeste is capable of many things but never murder. You must... You must believe that."

Victoria turned to face the balcony with its trellis of tropical flowers climbing over the marble. "Are you trying to convince me of that, or yourself, Francisco?"

Her sudden coldness toward him felt like a bludgeon, like a cudgel, some weapon blunt enough that she could barely grasp it but a weapon all the same. Unwieldy as it was, unfair as it was, she felt it like a modicum of control in her hands.

"How do I know the two of you didn't conspire to... to lure the two of us here, and..." She stood stock-still, staring at the ocean view. The glassy blue waves were obstructed by a boat. A ship was leaving the harbour. "Francisco!"

She caught his arm as he strode over to her side, distressed speculations forgotten. "A ship is leaving the island!"

"Not just any ship," Isko growled. "See that figurehead?"

She squinted, trying to see it. "The mermaid?"

"Yes," he breathed. "It's Celeste's ship, the Morning Star."

"She's leaving?" Victoria said. "Where? Why did she not say anything? We need to stop her!"

Francisco shifted his hand so that it clutched hers instead. "Whoa there," he said as if she were a filly that needed breaking. "Perhaps, she is sending a search party to the other side of the island to look for your brother?"

"In a ship that is loaded with so much cargo that it looks to be prepared for at the very least a week-long trip?" Victoria retorted. "We cannot just allow her to leave."

Pushing away from Francisco, she ran into the hall, ignoring Dolores's alarmed look as she bolted toward Celeste's room. She flung open the door. It was empty and bare, devoid of all her possessions. When she turned around, she saw a trail of... blood. Feeling her stomach roil, she leaned against the wall, panting heavily, not caring that she was pressed up against a painting, whose gilt frame dug into her cheek. She doubled over, shutting her eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in her head and roaring in her ears at the sight of blood.

"Tori," Francisco's voice reached her ears. "Whose blood is that? Is it yours?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice barely a squeak. It was all she could do not to remember fetters about her wrists, a pistol held to her head, Harold Saunders holding her in captivity.

"Tori," he repeated and pulled her into his body. She could not resist letting herself be wrapped in him, buried in his scent. "The blood is leading to Matthew's door."

Carefully, Victoria pushed open the door to Matthew's room. The door opened with a creak though it ought to have been well-oiled. However the past few weeks had made her so distraught she could think of nothing but her brother, she still felt some distant concern for the Prince of Arlea. He was, after all, the reason they had been sent here... which, of course, added the taste of bitter resentment.

"A trail of blood..." she repeated, staring at the white tiles marred with the red drops. "But the inside of the room has no blood at all, not even a trace."