The days turned cold as Autumn strengthened its grip on the castle and its grounds. Soon, Tikki wouldn't let Marinette leave her room without a cloak. Instead of making lists of names and studying painted faces all day, she went for long afternoon walks in the gardens and sketched the landscapes. Sometimes, she added figures from the castle's paintings, extravagant clothes swishing in phantom winds, and faces changed from haughty sneers to benevolent smiles.

The night she told her ghost that she had run out of names to try, she had nearly cried.

"Please don't," the ghost murmured. "It really doesn't matter. I wasn't expecting you to find me."

"But it's not fair on you," she said, glad for the darkness hiding her tears. She rubbed her eyes on her sleeve. "You sound so sweet. You deserve to know who you are."

"Don't you think we're more than just our names?" asked the ghost warmly. She could hear the smile in his voice. "You aren't you because you're called Marinette Dupain-Cheng."

Marinette rubbed her eyes again until they stung and sat up. "You're right. Okay. I'll stop trying to guess your name. Instead, you can tell me about yourself, even if you can't remember much from when you were alive. What do you do during the day?"

So the ghost told her. He told her about his days wandering the corridors, staring into the faces of each portrait until his eyes tricked him into thinking they were staring back.

He told her he loved music, and that he was sure he'd been able to play something once upon a time. Perhaps a lute, or a violin. But those days were long gone.

He told her about his fascination with nature, how he would gaze dreamily out the windows and watch the flowers bloom and wilt with every passing year, but magic had disrupted the cycle.

His voice cracked when he admitted that roses were his favourite, but nowadays he could barely stand to look at them.

The next night, she arranged a posy of flowers from the garden: everything from large spheres of red petals to the delicate white stars growing beneath the walls. She left a note next to the posy which said To help you find a new favourite to enjoy.

She knew he'd read it by the soft sighs permeating her dark room.

It must have been mid-October when the weather took a sudden turn. Instead of bright, crisp autumn days, Marinette woke up to thick rain lashing against her window and Tikki telling her that under no circumstances was she going outside.

"You'll catch your death of cold," she said, nudging the small teapot closer. "Stay inside. Maybe paint one of your sketches?"

"Maybe…"

Usually, on days like this, Marinette would sit in the corner of her father's kitchen and do her sewing. Warmed by the oven, and with her dad chortling over silly jokes in the background, it had made her feel cosy and safe. But being so far away from home… As comfortable as she'd gotten in the castle, it felt like a betrayal to fall into her old habits and hobbies.

Instead, when she'd eaten and dressed, Marinette went out to slowly meander around the castle, nodding to servants when she passed them. She was drawn to a corridor on the bottom floor, outside the room she and Wayzz had both labelled the music room. The stretch of wall was home to a tapestry, depicting a unicorn battling a lion; another portrait of Emmett du Ponse, and three discoloured patches. Marinette brushed her fingers against the wall paper, where the pale green deepened. Perhaps there were more portraits she hadn't found yet? In a secret room Wayzz didn't know about, or in storage somewhere. She had asked about the west tower, the one part of the castle she had yet to explore, but Wayzz told her she wasn't allowed to go there.

"Structural damage," he'd explained. "The passage leading to it has caved in, and even if you crawled through the roof may collapse and hurt you."

The butler had assured there were no paintings up there, and so it wouldn't be worth risking her life to explore it. Not that she could even if she wanted to; no one had told her where the entrance was.

For now, she could only stare at the dark patches where portraits used to hang, and wonder.

"Portraits are moved all the time," someone remarked next to her. Marinette whirled on the spot to see Viperion standing there, claws clasped behind his back, tail trailing the floor, staring at the expanse of blank wall before them.

"Who moves them?" she asked. The servants were stronger than they looked, yes, and managed trays of food without too much difficulty, but a huge oil painting would surely be too cumbersome for their tiny bodies.

Viperion scratched the back of his head. "What I mean is…the portraits used to be moved all the time. Back when…"

"When Tikki and the others were human." Marinette finished for him. He nodded. "Were, um, were you human as well?"

Viperion stiffened then slumped a little. "What do you think?" he asked, turning to her. His eyes flashed.

Marinette studied his face, taking in the glistening scales, the vivid eyes, the deadly teeth. She thought about his eating habits, how he perched awkwardly on his chair and rarely used his cutlery. How he wore only old, ripped clothes. More than once she had spotted him meandering around the castle on all fours. Compared to Tikki and the other servants, who despite being tiny, colourful animals, still cared an awful lot about manners and propriety, he acted more like a creature trying to be human.

"No," she eventually said. "There's something wild in you. Like you're trying to tame yourself, but at heart you're more snake than man."

"You're very observant," he remarked. "Tell me, have you seen the portrait of Kagami De Bellay?"

"Erm…"

"I'll take that as a no." Viperion chuckled and stepped towards the door to the music room, motioning for her to follow. He picked his way across the room, being careful not to touch the pile of string instruments in the corner, or the dusty piano. He stopped next to the bookcase and gestured towards a portrait.

Marinette tilted her head. She had seen it before, but not studied it in that much detail. It was the only portrait in the room, and as she doubted it was her ghost she hadn't paid it much heed. "What's so special about it?"

"I think she looks a little like you."

"Me?" Marinette spluttered. The painting was of a young, fierce woman with dark hair. Short locks framed her face and jaw, but a long braid was just visible behind her dress. Her eyes were narrow, slightly slanted, but bright gold. Her plump lips were stern, her red dress stiff and simple. She was also remarkably pretty, if intimidating. "I don't know…"

"Look again," Viperion insisted. "You have the same dark hair, same fair skin. There's also something about her eyes—I see the same fire in yours."

"Who is she?"

Viperion frowned, thinking and tapping his chin. "From what I recall—that is, what I remember from Wayzz's history lessons—Kagami De Bellamy was a noblewoman from an eastern land. She seduced and married the only son of an old king. No one approved of the marriage, but as it had been conducted in a church, there was nothing anyone could do to break them apart. The king had no other heirs, and didn't want the crown to be passed to an obscure member of the family tree, so he reluctantly accepted Kagami as his daughter and she became princess Kagami De Bellamy. Unfortunately for him, when he was on his deathbed, Kagami and the prince ran away to her country and so the crown was passed to the Du Ponse line."

"Emmett du Ponse," Marinette recited. "I've seen his portrait."

"Yes, he was the last du Ponse on the throne."

"Oh." Marinette nodded—although of which throne, she didn't know. She had never heard of any king, new or old, who had been a du Ponse, and knew of no other kingdoms nearby. She looked back at Kagami's face and tried to imagine her in life: a stranger in a strange land, falling in love with the crown prince. Like something from a fairy tale. "Where's her husband?"

"Hm?"

"The prince she married," she clarified. "Shouldn't she be hung next to him?"

Viperion shrugged. "As I said, paintings were moved all the time. His portrait probably got lost somewhere down the line, or damaged. I'm sure they used to share a wall."

"It's a shame they don't anymore," she murmured, but her mind was elsewhere. If the mysterious prince's portrait had been lost, perhaps he could be the ghost in her room? But the thought made her heart hurt—she didn't like the idea of the ghost being married.

When she looked back at Viperion he had turned away from her. His claws rested delicately on the piano, dislodging dust.

"Can you play?" she asked without thinking.

Viperion smiled sadly at her and flexed one of his paws. "With these?"

"I suppose not. I was hoping someone would know how to tune it."

"Do you play?"

"No…but my friend, Adrien, taught me a few tunes…"

"I understand," he said. "I'll ask Wayzz to take a look. Or Sass—he likes music."

"Thank you."

"Do you remember if you ever married?" Marinette asked that night.

Her ghost paused before replying. "I… I can't say for sure, but I'd like to believe I'd remember if I had."

"Even if you can't remember your own name."

Another pause. "I'm certain I never married. I have a ring, a specific one I had always intended to give to my bride if I ever found one. I know I didn't give it to anyone."

"You remember such strange things."

"I know." The voice was more cheerful now, Marinette was pleased to hear. "I also remember I used to love sparring, and I was rather good at it. Sometimes, when I get bored—which is most days—I practise my stances in abandoned corridors."

Marinette laughed, and wished she could picture the scene. But with no face for the ghost, the best she could do was imagine a suit of armour clicking and clanking down the hallway. "Would it matter if they weren't abandoned? No one can see you."

"It's still embarrassing," admitted the ghost. "But if you could see me, I'd practise all the more to try and impress you."

Marinette couldn't repress her smile as something warm blossomed between her lungs. "And I would give you my only ribbon as a token of my favour. I'm afraid it's a little tatty though."

"If it was from you, I'd wear it with pride."

The warmth spread, but it had a sharp edge which sliced at her flesh. "Would you really?" she murmured. "If I was alive when you were? Would you wear a poor girl's ribbon?"

"If you wanted me to," the ghost replied softly, tenderly.

Marinette's breath hitched, but before she could cobble together a reply, the ghost continued.

"I…it's getting late. I have to go now, mademoiselle. Goodnight."

Her response stuck in her throat.

True to his word, Viperion had found someone to tune the piano. The next day brought in more rain, so she ventured back into the music room and found the instrument gleaming like new. Whoever it was—Wayzz or Sass, she suspected—had also dusted off the violins, lutes and violas; cleaned the harp; and reorganised the shelf of music.

She sat at the piano stool, and for a while just caressed the gleaming white and black keys, trying to remember the tunes Adrien had shown her what felt like years ago. She pressed down; the note reverberated through the room like a phantom. Her skin prickled, her stomach writhed, nausea rose in her throat. It was bittersweet hearing the piano again. On one hand, it reminded her of home, of visiting Adrien's palatial home under the guise of delivering bread or fixing his clothes and listening to him play merry ditties and jigs.

On the other hand, it reminded her of home.

Suddenly, she wished she'd never touched it.

The other instruments sat like corpses throughout the room. Her eyes fell on the legion of string instruments, the violins and cellos and lutes, and remembered her ghost mentioning he thought he'd played something once upon a time. She wondered if he was in the room now, watching her. The thought made her strangely happy. She stared at the door, willing herself to see a misty figure fade into existence, but nothing happened.

"If it was from you, I'd wear it with pride."

Marinette blushed and raised a hand to the tattered ribbon in her hair. She couldn't give her ribbon to her ghost. She couldn't give anything to a ghost. The most she could do was keep putting fresh vases of flowers by her doorway for him to enjoy, though he still hadn't picked a new favourite.

With a sigh, she sloped across the room and pulled down the lute then returned to the piano to sit down on the stool. She gingerly plucked a string; a single note rang through the air. She plucked another; a second note rumbled through her bones. A third; a high chime bounced off the ceiling.

"What am I doing?" she mumbled, setting it down beneath her seat. "I have no idea how to play this."

"I'm sure Sass could teach you something," said Viperion from the doorway.

Marinette shrieked and fell off her stool. How long had he been there?

Viperion lumbered in and helped her to her feet. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, princess."

"Princess?"

For a moment he looked shocked, which morphed into sadness. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the expression disappeared, replaced by a grin. His eyes flicked to something behind her. The portrait of Kagami.

Marinette rolled her eyes. "I'm not a princess."

"But you look like one. Who knows? Maybe she's an ancestor?"

"Not likely," she replied. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I heard music and came to investigate."

"I wasn't playing that loudly," Marinette huffed. "You must have been standing outside the door."

"I have very sharp hearing," he responded with an amused smirk, though it slipped when she didn't react. "That was a joke."

"Wasn't a very good one," she quipped.

Viperion sighed dramatically. "You wound me."

"You're an idiot."

He only chuckled and sat down on the stool, perching on the edge so she could sit down too if she wished, but she remained standing. "I thought you wanted to play the piano," he said. "Why are you using the lute?"

"I…" Marinette faltered. "Well…"

Could she tell him? There wasn't much he could do to get rid of the ghost, so there was no danger of that. Her ghost knew of Viperion, so why couldn't Viperion know about the ghost? He was the master… and maybe he had an idea of who her friend could be?

"This is going to sound crazy," she muttered.

Viperion shrugged and gestured at himself. "Have you seen who you're talking to?"

Marinette laughed quietly and took a seat. "Good point." Staring at her hands folded on her lap so she wouldn't see Viperion's reaction, she launched into her story. "Okay, there's a ghost that's been visiting me at night. I don't know his name but…" She began fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt. "He's very sweet, and kind, and funny. He mentioned that he used to play lute, or thought he did, and… I don't know. I suppose I thought it would help me feel close to him."

When she chanced a glance at Viperion, she was surprised to find he wasn't laughing. Instead, he wore a frown, brow furrowed, eyes curious. "Close to him? Have…have you developed feelings for the ghost?"

Marinette swallowed thickly. "I…I suppose I have." Groaning, she pressed her face into her hands and shook her head. "Now you must think I'm crazy."

"I don't think that," Viperion replied gently. "Do you know who he is? Or…was?"

Marinette lifted her head, blinking at him, shocked. "I…no. I was hoping you might have an idea. He said he was in one of the portraits, but I haven't found him. I've looked everywhere."

"Marinette…is there any point in looking? I mean, he's-"

She cut him off before he could say it. "I know. I didn't mean to fall in love with a ghost, and I know nothing could ever come of it. But-" The words came thick and fast now, tumbling from her mouth before her brain could register what she was saying. "But it must be horrible for him. Stuck here, not even knowing his own name. I just want to help him. Maybe help him move on."

Viperion stared at her, as if stunned into silence. He stood suddenly, clutching the edge of his cloak. "You're a kind person, Marinette," he said then swiftly left the room.

Later that day, after lunch, Marinette wandered again down the west side of the fourth floor. Something was bugging her about the map, but she couldn't quite work out what. Most of the floors were symmetrical. Room placements weren't necessarily a perfect reflection, but the outline was. However, with the fourth floor, there was a small chamber on the eastern side which wasn't present on the west.

At first, she had gone straight to the extra chamber, hoping to find a secret treasure trove, but instead found it was the entrance to the east tower. Excitement burnt through her veins as she raced away, thoughts coming thick and fast.

There wasn't an extra chamber on the east side.

Which meant there was a missing one on the west side.

If the east chamber led to the east tower, then the west side must harbour a chamber to the west tower.

The one place in the castle she hadn't visited.

Wayzz and Tikki had insisted it was due to structural damage, but her gut told her something else.

From the start Tikki had never been fully honest, leaving several questions unanswered. Chances were there was something in that tower they didn't want her to find. Maybe a way out? Maybe a terrible secret about her fate?

Or—and for some reason this possibility filled her with the most excitement—maybe a collection of portraits.

Marinette skidded to a halt where she thought the entrance ought to be. Drawing out her map again, she traced her finger across the lines, stopping where there should be a door. No door, just a couple of portraits and a tapestry. A wolf, howling at the moon with a line of soldiers marching beneath. She hadn't looked at it that closely before, her eyes often sliding from the portrait of the withered old man to the painting of an equally ancient woman with a whiskered chin.

Really, she was disappointed with herself. An old castle like this: secret passages behind bookcases; doors disguised as fireplaces. Of course there was bound to be an entrance nestled behind a tapestry. Glancing up and down to make sure she was alone, Marinette yanked the tapestry aside.

A door. Dark wood, splintered with deep gouges. Claw marks?

Marinette bit down a squeal of joy and pushed. It creaked open.

The room on the other side was a direct reflection of the east chamber. Small and square; red floorboards; a spiral staircase rising from the centre. However, there was no decoration here. No portraits or banners or statues. The floor was scratched as heavily as the door, the bannisters had chunks missing, and the torches were dented. They burst into flame as soon as the door thudded shut behind her.

Marinette took a deep breath and hurried up the staircase. Dread deepened with every step. Every missing hunk of wood, every scratch and claw mark, every whispering wind whistling in the rafters above. Whereas the east tower was bright and jolly, each window giving way to awe-inspiring views of the grounds, the west tower felt colder, darker. The windows showed a misty landscape and the dark shape of the forest. Something about it was off.

At the top was a plain landing, decorated only with more scratches and gouges. And a door. It was barely on its hinges, hanging at an odd angle. Marinette walked as quietly as she could to it, wincing when one of the floorboards groaned.

The door swung easily open, banging upon impact with the wall.

Inside was carnage. Ripped furniture piled against one side, curtains pulled from their rings and strewn across the floor. The torches had been thrown from their brackets, chunks of stone from the walls littered the room. A chaise-lounge was pushed against one wall, covered in old, dusty cloth. But Marinette didn't have eyes for that. She was too side-tracked by the far wall.

It was stuffed with several portraits of the same three people. The first, an older woman with wild, grey hair and fierce blue eyes. The second, a girl who might have been Marinette's age, with large copper eyes and black hair styled elegantly around her round, fair face.

And the third...

A young man with the night in his hair, and the stars in his eyes. Unlike the other portraits in the castle, he was smiling, mouth pulled up enough to show the hint of white teeth. Could this be her ghost? Had she really fallen in love with what had once been the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life?

Breath shaking in her throat, Marinette scurried to the paintings to drink in more. The strong jaw, the broad shoulders, the slender waist. And each frame bore the same name. Prince Luka Couffaine

Luka. Could that be the ghost? She looked back at the women, and found their names too. Queen Ankara Couffaine, and Princess Juleka Couffaine. His family, surely. A mother and a sister.

Marinette became aware of a faint humming beside her, and turned around. There, nestled in the corner, next to the chaise-lounge something glowed on a small table.

It was a rose, sitting innocently in a jar. There were two dead stalks next to it, bent over the edge, facing a pile of withered brown petals. The alive rose was bright red, gleaming like a spot of fresh blood. It was small, however, and seemed to have lost many petals already. They couldn't have been up here long, else they would all have died, which wasn't a surprise considering how dark the room was. They would be far better off by a window.

Marinette carefully picked up the jar; it was surprisingly light. She soon realised it was because it wasn't filled with water. Just an empty jar with the flowers – two dead, one dying.

Marinette hadn't taken more than two steps when the door banged open again.

Green eyes blazed.