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Part I

Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir.

It is better to prevent than to heal.

Prologue

It is a curious thing, the scent of memory. It takes only a little to send us back in time—a trace of my mother’s lavender oil, a hint of my father’s pipe smoke. Each reminds me of childhood in its own strange way. My mother applied her oil every morning as she stared at her reflection, counting the new lines on her face. My father smoked his pipe when he received guests. They frightened him, I think, with their hollow eyes and quick hands. They certainly frightened me.

But beeswax—beeswax will always remind me of my sister.

Like clockwork, Filippa would reach for her silver brush when our nursemaid, Evangeline, lit the candles each evening. The wicks would fill the nursery with the soft scent of honey as Filippa undid my braid, as she passed the boar bristles through my hair. As Evangeline settled into her favorite rose-velvet chair and watched us warmly, her eyes crinkling in the misty purple light of dusk.

The wind—crisp on that October night—rustled at the eaves, hesitating, lingering at the promise of a story.

“Mes choux,” she murmured, stooping to retrieve her knitting needles from the basket beside her chair. Our family hound, Birdie, curled into an enormous ball at the hearth. “Have I told you the story of Les Éternels?”

As always, Pip spoke first, leaning around my shoulder tofrown at Evangeline. Equal parts suspicious and intrigued. “The Eternal Ones?”

“Yes, dear.”

Anticipation fluttered in my belly as I glanced at Pip, our faces mere inches apart. Golden specks still glinted on her cheeks from our portrait lesson that afternoon. They looked like freckles. “Has she?” My voice lacked Evangeline’s lyrical grace, Filippa’s firm resolve. “I don’t think she has.”

“She definitely hasn’t,” Pip confirmed, deadly serious, before turning back to Evangeline. “We should like to hear it, please.”

Evangeline arched a brow at her imperious tone. “Is that so?”

“Oh, please tell us, Evangeline!” Forgetting myself entirely, I leapt to my slippered feet and clapped my hands together. Pip—twelve years old to my paltry six—hastily snatched my nightgown, tugging me back to the armoire seat. Her small hands landed on my shoulders.

“Ladies do not shout, Célie. What would Pére say?”

Heat crept into my cheeks as I folded my own hands in my lap, immediately contrite. “Pretty is as pretty does.”

“Exactly.” She returned her attention to Evangeline, whose lips twitched as she fought a smile. “Please tell us the story, Evangeline. We promise not to interrupt.”

“Very good.” With practiced ease, Evangeline slid her lithe fingers along the needles, weaving wool into a lovely scarf of petal pink. My favorite color. Pip’s scarf—bright white, like freshly fallen snow—already rested in the basket. “Though you still have paint on your face, darling. Be a lamb and wash for me, will you?” She waited until Pippa finished scrubbing her cheeks before continuing. “Right, then. Les Éternels. They’re born in the ground—coldas bone, and just as strong—without heart or soul or mind. Only impulse. Onlylust.” She said the word with unexpected relish. “The first one came to our kingdom from a faraway land, living in the shadows, spreading her sickness to the people here. Infecting them with her magic.”

Pip resumed brushing my hair. “What kind of magic?”

My nose crinkled as I tilted my head. “What islust?”

Evangeline pretended not to hear me.

“The worst kind of magic, darlings. The absoluteworstkind.” The wind rattled the windows, eager for the story, as Evangeline paused dramatically—except Birdie rolled over with a warbled howl at precisely the same moment, ruining the effect. Evangeline cut the hound an exasperated look. “The kind that requires blood. Requiresdeath.”

Pippa and I exchanged a covert glance.

“Dames Rouges,” I heard her breathe at my ear, nearly indiscernible. “Red Ladies.”

Our father had spoken of them once, the strangest and rarest of the occultists who plagued Belterra. He’d thought we hadn’t heard him with the funny man in his study, but we had.

“What are you whispering?” Evangeline asked sharply, stabbing her needles in our direction. “Secrets are quite rude, you know.”

Pip lifted her chin. She’d forgotten that ladies do not scowl either. “Nothing, Evangeline.”

“Yes,” I echoed instantly. “Nothing, Evangeline.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Plucky little things, aren’t you? Well, I should tell you that Les Éternelsloveplucky little girls like you. They think you’re the sweetest.”