When Grayson left, Oren escorted me back to the house.
“How much did you hear?” I asked him, my mind tangled with thoughts and emotions I wasn’t sure I was ready to handle.
Oren gave me a look. “How much do you want me to have heard?”
I bit at the inside of my lip. “You knew Tobias Hawthorne. Would he have picked me to inherit just because Emily Laughlin died on my birthday? Did he decide to leave his fortune to a random person born on October eighteenth? Hold a lottery?”
“I don’t know, Avery.” Oren shook his head. “The only person who ever really knew what Tobias Hawthorne was thinking was Mr. Hawthorne himself.”
I made my way back through the halls of Hawthorne House, back toward the wing I shared with my sister. I wasn’t certain that either Grayson or Jameson would ever speak a word to me again. I didn’t know what the future held, or why the idea that I might have been chosen for a completely trivial reason felt like such a punch to the gut.
How many people on this planet shared my birthday?
I stopped on the stairs, in front of the portrait of Tobias Hawthorne that Xander had shown me what felt like a lifetime ago. I racked my mind now, as I’d done then, for any memory, any moment in time when my path had crossed with the billionaire’s. I looked Tobias Hawthorne in the eye—Grayson’s silver eyes—and silently asked him why.
Why me?
Why were you sorry?
I pictured my mother playing I Have A Secret. Did something happen the day I was born?
I stared at the portrait, taking in every wrinkle on the old man’s face, every hint to personality in his posture, even the muted color in the background. No answers. My eyes caught on the artist’s signature.
Tobias Hawthorne X. X. VIII
I looked back at the old man’s silver eyes. The only one who ever really knew what Tobias Hawthorne was thinking was Mr. Hawthorne himself. This was a self-portrait. And the letters next to the name?
“Roman numerals,” I whispered.
“Avery?” Oren said beside me. “Everything okay?”
In Roman numerals, X was ten, V was five, and I was one.
“Ten.” I put my finger under the first X, then moved it to the rest of the letters, reading them as a single unit. “Eighteen.”
Remembering the mirror that had hidden the armory, I reached behind the portrait’s frame. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling for until I found it. A button. A release. I pushed it, and the portrait swung outward.
Behind it, on the wall, was a keypad.
“Avery?” Oren said again, but I was already bringing my fingers up to the keypad. What if the numbers aren’t the final answer? The possibility caught me in its jaws and wouldn’t let go. What if they’re meant to lead to the next clue?
I brought my index finger to the keypad and tried the obvious combination. “One. Zero. One. Eight.”
There was a beep, and then the top of the step below me began to rise, revealing a compartment underneath. I ducked down and reached inside. There was only one thing in the hollowed stair: a piece of stained glass. It was purple, in the shape of an octagon, with a tiny hole in the top, through which a sheer, shimmering ribbon had been threaded. It looked almost like a Christmas ornament.
As I held the stained glass up by the string, my eyes caught on the underside of the panel. Etched into the wood was the following verse.
Top of the clock
Meet me at high
Tell the late day hello
Wish the morning good-bye
A twist and a flip
What do you see?
Take them two at a time
And come find me
