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“Hello again, Aleka,” I said.

Her nostrils flared. “Drink this.” She handed me a glass, full of something gray and pungent. “Tout de suite.”

Despite the hour, two day Vigiles flanked her, pistols aimed at my kneecaps. I steeled myself and drank the stuff in one go. It slid down my throat like cold grease, tasting of must and rot, like water tainted with peat.

What came next was worse. As Kotzia snatched back the glass, the æther turned woolen around me. It wasn’t absent—it never was —but it seemed farther away, harder to reach. An intense feeling of dread and hollowness gripped my insides.

“What was that?” I managed to say. “What the hell is it?”

“Security.” Kotzia sniffed. “Try anything, and you will be shot.”

The foul taste rocked my stomach. For a dangerous moment, I thought I would throw up all over her pristine white heels. Whatever she had given me, it was obstructing my gift. I could only sense the nearest dreamscapes.

Six armed Vigiles waited for me by the door, including the commandant who had knocked me unconscious. They marched me to the floor below, to the doors of the Salon Vert, where I had eaten with Ménard. Kotzia knocked on the door, and a voice called from within.

Inside, it was dimly lit. Ménard sat beside Frère, with Cade on the other side of the table.

Frère was first to lock onto me. Her chin jutted. She took her spouse by the hand.

“Thank you, Aleka.” Ménard spared me a level glance. “Vigiles, kindly wait outside.”

“Are you certain, Grand Inquisitor?” the commandant asked.

“She has been neutered.”

I stayed where I was as my escort retreated. When Cade patted the chair beside him, I sat mechanically. Frère looked as if she would throttle me with her necklace if I came within reach.

“I brought you here, anormale, to explain your situation. So there is no confusion as to why you are in my home, and not on the guillotine.” Ménard addressed me in crisp English. “After what you did to my spouse and our child, that is certainly where you belong.”

I elected not to answer.

“When I heard that Luce had complained of a migraine, I was concerned,” Ménard said. “Migraines, seizures, blackouts—more often than not, such things are the heralds of unnatural influence.” The very excuse I had used to cover my tracks had tipped him off. “Coupled with reports from England that the fugitive Paige Mahoney could infiltrate even the most secure buildings, and that she had escaped Inquisitorial custody, my suspicions grew.”

He drew his cup and saucer toward him, slow as you please. No one else moved.

“The meal we shared included a test,” he said. “You were clever to report your own detection. At first, I was sure it was Luce— that she had simply been unwell. I was at ease. Only one aspect struck me as curious. I had expressly requested that bouillabaisse was served, since Luce does not care for it, and expected her to send it away at once.”

“As I would have.” Frère dealt me a mocking smile. “I suppose you researched me for your deception. You imagined that because I lived in Marseille, I must like bouillabaisse, hm?”

Beaten by a bowl of fish stew. What a spy.

“You did not remark upon it. Still,” Ménard said to me, “you never tasted it, either. Instead, you left it untouched. It was . . . a plausible reaction, if not the one I anticipated. Until the end of the meal, I must confess, I was convinced. You did well.”

I spoke for the first time. “What gave me away?”

“When you avoided discussing baby names.” He clasped his hands, so I could see his gold spousal ring. “Luce and I have already decided what to call our fourth child.”

“Of course. The happy family,” I said. “So happy, so devoid of paranoia, that you decided to set a test for your own spouse . . . because she told her secretary she had a migraine.” I raised my eyebrows at Frère. “Is this a marriage or a noose?”

“I would be happy to demonstrate the difference,” Frère said, deadly soft.

“Are you proposing, Luce?”

Frère half-rose. Ménard tightened his grip on her hand, and they seemed to have a silent conversation. Finally, she sank back into her seat, one hand on the firm swell of her stomach, her gaze roaring hatred. Under the table, Cade gave my wrist a warning squeeze. I pulled my arm out of his reach.

He was right. Sitting across a table from this pair of murderers was harder than I had expected, but I had to watch my tongue. Frère would be only too pleased to have it torn out.

“Later,” Ménard continued, “Fitzours summoned me to the Salon Vert, where he had found Luce wandering in the dark. When he told me he had sensed unnatural influence on her, it confirmed what I had already supposed. A criminal had stolen her body. Violated our family home.”