"Vandemar and Croup don't keep prisoners. At least not for longer than it takes to..." Door traces over the paper, the rough threads of it catching at her fingertips. "It's been a year."

But the half-script handwriting, neat but childish, is familiar. Shaky, hasty, but if it's not the real thing, it's a good imitation.

"If it's real..." She hadn't ever let herself hope for that, even phrase it as a possibility. Wished things had turned out differently, that they were all still alive, yes, but not the other. She looks back at the note from the Marquis, telling her to stay here, that it's a trap.