Scarlett Veilcrest read the murder charge again, then burned it in the fireplace of her dead father's manor. The purple shutters rattled in the wind outside. She had not killed the man they named. The patron who ran Maplecrypt's secret gatherings had done it, then pinned the blame on her. To prove it, she had to stand in his rooms and watch his face. But no one entered those gatherings without an invitation, and no one invited the accused. Her black kitten padded across the desk and sat on the guest list she had stolen. White speckles glittered in her fur as she batted the paper. Scarlett lifted the kitten aside and studied the names. Every guest sent flowers ahead of the evening. That custom was the only crack she could find. She rode to the overgrown cemetery before dawn. A florist's cart waited there each morning, hidden among the leaning stones and tangled vines. The driver delivered arrangements to the manor on the hill, the one with the tall roofline and dark trim. Scarlett knew his route. She knew he never checked faces, only orders. She wore a plain grey dress and carried the tallest arrangement she owned. Midnight roses rose from her arms, their petals black and blue, pearl-bright in the weak light. Pale lavender and jasmine crowded the base. Crimson lines threaded the green stems like veins. Inside the blooms she had tucked a folded card. The card bore a forged name from the stolen list. "Delivery for the manor," she told the driver. Her voice stayed flat. "The lady added these herself." The driver squinted at the flowers, not at her. He nodded and waved her onto the cart. They rolled up the hill in silence. At the gate, a footman in black counted the arrangements against his ledger. Scarlett's heart hammered. He reached the forged name, found it, and checked it off. "The sender attends tonight," she said. "She asks that the steward hold a place." The footman frowned. He went inside. Scarlett waited, certain the whole plan would collapse. The kitten's weight was gone from her arms, but her hands still shook. Then the footman returned and pressed a stiff card into her palm. Gold letters. Her forged name. An invitation to that night's gathering. She climbed down and walked back through the leaning stones. She had her way in. But the card carried a stranger's name, and the real woman might arrive at the same door tonight. If both of them appeared, the lie would break in front of the patron himself. Scarlett had bought her entrance, and bought a trap with it. She slid the invitation into her sleeve and started planning who she would have to become before dark.