“What’s in the Bluebeard room?” I should have expected it—he never let anything go—but, nevertheless, the question hit me hard enough to make the blood roar in my ears. “Nothing. I mean, almost nothing. Just some relics. It’s mostly empty.” He propped his chin on his hand and eyed me slyly. “Mostly empty except for a single rose in a glass case, wilting slowly, petal by petal, and, like, waiting for you to learn to love again.”
