Door number one or door number two?” Jameson Hawthorne asked.
Lyra glanced at Grayson, whose expression made it clear: He would handle this, Hawthorne versus Hawthorne.
Grayson’s eyes narrowed very slightly. “Two.”
“Excellent choice,” Jameson replied in a tone that suggested it was anything but.
A circular section of the mosaic floor popped up and spun, revealing a compartment. Inside it, Lyra found a flatbed scanner, an empty sketchbook, and charcoal, the kind used for drawing.
“Door number one was a puzzle box, just FYI,” Jameson told them over the speakers. “Door number two gets you a challenge of a different sort. What’s a Hawthorne game without a little fun?”
Grayson’s eyes narrowed further. “Jamie—”
“All you have to do to earn your hint,” Jameson said wickedly, “is draw each other.”
Draw… Lyra couldn’t even finish that thought.
“They don’t have to be good drawings.” Avery Grambs had clearly been listening to the interplay between the brothers the entire time. “Just really look at one another and draw what you see. When you’ve scanned in one drawing of each person on your team, you’ll get your hint.”
“I know what you’re doing, Avery.” Grayson said the heiress’s name like he’d thought it ten thousand times or more. Lyra thought again about that
kiss—and then about the Hawthorne heiress’s advice to her, going into all of this.
Live.
“Avery,” Grayson said again. “Jamie?”
There was no reply. They were gone. Seconds passed, and then Grayson reached for the sketchbook and the charcoal. He angled his gaze toward Odette.
The old woman snorted. “Not me. Her.”
“We’re going to have a long talk very soon,” Grayson promised Odette. “An informative one.”
And then his silvery eyes shifted slowly to Lyra. After a long moment, he began to draw. Something about the sound of the charcoal skimming the page made it hard for Lyra to breathe. Each time Grayson looked down at the page, she got a modicum of relief.
And each time he looked up, Lyra felt his gaze as a physical thing. Burned into skin. She thought about dancing, about running, about being fine and not fine, about mistakes.
And then Grayson closed a fist around the charcoal, strode toward the scanner, and laid the sketch pad flat on the bed. He scanned his drawing, and there was a ding.
“One down,” Grayson said, his voice almost hoarse. “Two to go.” Odette arched a brow at Lyra. “Your turn.”
Grayson ripped the drawing he’d made out of the sketchbook, folded it in quarters, and tucked it into his tuxedo jacket. Then he held out the sketch pad to Lyra. Once she’d taken it from his grasp, his fist unfurled, the charcoal flat on his palm.
As Lyra closed her fingers around the charcoal, she knew one thing: Come hell or high water, she wasn’t drawing Grayson Hawthorne. Thankfully, if Lyra had drawn Grayson, that would have left Odette drawing herself, so no one could argue as Lyra oriented her body toward the old woman.
Odette, the lawyer. Odette, the actress. Odette, with all her secrets.
Lyra did as Avery had bid them and really looked at her subject. In the lines of Odette’s face, she saw the young woman from Changing Crowns. In Odette’s eyes, Lyra saw lifetimes.
And pain.
Lyra began to draw. “What are you dying of?” She didn’t beat around the bush, and Odette didn’t so much as blink.
“Glioblastoma. Discovered early, for what that’s worth.” “Inoperable?” Grayson pressed.
“Not necessarily.” Odette raised her chin. “But I find that I am not disposed to let a doctor half my age cut into my brain in the hopes of wringing a few more months out of this life.”
“It could be a year more,” Grayson said. “Or two.”
“The condition is fatal either way,” Odette replied. “And what’s a year or two to me? I’ve been married three times, divorced once, widowed twice. There were others, at least three of whom I would have gone to hell and back for—two of whom, I arguably did.”
Lyra glanced up but continued drawing. Odette’s eyes met hers.
“Love is a strange and wild beast,” the old woman said. “It’s a gift, a comfort, and a curse. Remember that.” She glanced at Grayson. “Both of you.”
Neither replied. Silence filled the room as Lyra focused on completing her drawing, and by the time she finished, her entire body ached. Lyra scanned the drawing. It wasn’t a close likeness; she wasn’t a skilled artist.
But the ding sounded nonetheless.
“One more.” Lyra flipped the page and handed the sketch pad to Odette. The old woman took it and the charcoal, staring at Lyra as if searching for a hidden message in her eyes. Finally, Odette turned to Grayson—her actual subject.
As Odette began to draw, Lyra imagined what it would be like to sketch Grayson Hawthorne—all sharp angles, except for those lips.
Thankfully, Odette finished in under a minute. She handed the sketchbook to Lyra, who took it and looked down, expecting to see Grayson’s face.
But Odette hadn’t drawn Grayson.
The image on the page wrapped an iron fist around Lyra’s heart and stole the air from her lungs.
A calla lily.
