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Still nothing.

By the time I reach the third floor, I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve made a terrible mistake. The castle is enormous, large enough to lose someone inside for days without ever crossing paths with them. The silence pressing in from every direction only deepens my growing unease.

Then I hear it.

A cough.

I freeze.

For one suspended moment, I question whether I imagined it.

Then it comes again.

“Dad?”

I turn toward the sound and hurry down a narrow corridor that ends at a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron. The door is slightly open.

I push it wider.

My world stops.

My father is lying on a narrow bed inside what appears to be a stone cell.

“Dad!”

My voice sticks somewhere between disbelief and relief.

He stirs immediately.

For a terrifying second, all I can see are the iron bars separating us. My mind struggles to make sense of what I’m looking at. Stone walls surround him on every side. A narrow cot has been pushed against the far wall. A heavy blanket covers his legs. One hand is braced against the thin mattress under him.

“Boone?”

He pushes himself upright slowly, confusion settling across his face as his eyes focus on me.

My legs nearly give out.

He’s alive.

Every terrible possibility that’s been clawing at me since I found Bramble standing alone outside the cottage loosens its grip all at once.

I rush toward the cell.

“Dad!”

My fingers wrap around the cold iron bars while I search his face for signs of injury.

“What are you doing here?”

I stare at him.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

He glances around the cell like he’s only now realizing where he is.

He swings his legs over the side of the cot so quickly that the blanket slips to the floor. For a man who spent most of the winter struggling to climb the three steps leading to our porch, the sudden burst of movement startles me. He stumbles once, catches himself against the stone wall, then hurries toward the iron bars separating us.

His hands close around mine.