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Eyes narrowing, I glance between them. They obviously don’t want to discuss the rest of Eponine’s prediction aloud, but as that prediction concernsme, their secrecy hardly seems fair. And what could possibly be worse than himkillingme? No. I repress a shudder. It cannot be true. Odessa hasn’t fallen in love with a bat, and what’s more—Michal promised he wouldn’t hurt me. Indeed, it was hisonlypromise, and I have no choice but to believe him at the moment. Besides, his suspiciousness makes sense. I learnedmelusines can be crafty during my time in Le Présage; they can be sly. Each word from them often holds a double meaning. Michal found a mortal bride, yes, but not in holy matrimony. He found a Bride of Death, which is something altogether different. Perhaps the second part of Eponine’s prediction relates to that.

It doesn’t mean Michal willkillme.

Or perhaps, says the supercilious voice again,her predication isn’t aboutyouat all.

Strangely agitated, I ignore that voice, and my fingers close instinctively around the apple. “To your health,” I tell Michal, and without further ado, I lift the sweet fruit to my lips.

It tastes just like any other apple.

I chew quickly, ignoring the way Eponine’s smile widens—like a cat who has cornered a particularly juicy mouse. The impression only intensifies when she begins to circle me, her long and glittering robes trailing behind her. “Take out what is in your pocket.”

I hesitate for only a second before extracting the silver cross and dangling it from my fingertips, where it spins and glints in the lamplight. Eponine studies it in silence for a long moment. Beside us, Michal tracks her every step. I cannot decide if he dislikes her or simply distrusts her; either way, I do not envy the pythoness. “Tell me what you see,” she says at last.

I frown at her. To be completely frank, I expected much worse. “It’s a silver cross.”

“And?”

I hand the apple to Michal. “And it’s... ornate, bright, with filigree around the edges. It belonged to Babette Trousseau.” I trap the cross pendant in the palm of my hand, extending it to her. “Sheetched her initials along the side. See? Just there.”

Light, delighted laughter spills from Eponine’s mouth. “Are you sure?”

Brow furrowing, I angle the cross toward the nearest lamp, and golden light spills upon the markings. “Quite. Her initials are faint, but they’re right there, etched into the silver like I said. BT.”

At last, Michal looks away from Eponine, lifting my wrist to examine the cross. Despite his fit of temper with the prophecy, his touch remains carefully light. “This doesn’t say BT.”

“Of course it—”

“Someone tried to carve over the original letters, but the strokes are different.” He regards me almost warily. “I don’t think Babette was the original owner of this necklace.”

I snatch my wrist away from him, unaccountably offended. “Don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about?”

“Why didn’t you give the necklace to your brethren after you discovered Babette’s body?”

“I—” My frown deepens as I look between him and Eponine. “It just didn’t feel right to turn in something so personal. The necklace plainly meant something to Babette, or she wouldn’t have been carrying it with her. I was going to give it to Coco instead,” I add defensively. “She would’ve wanted it.”

“But you didn’t give it to Coco. You kept it. Why?”

“Becausesomeoneabducted me before I had the chance.” My voice echoes a touch louder than necessary in the still and quiet of the landing. Perhaps because I’ve developed a strange connection to this cross, and I don’t relish the idea of it belonging to someone else. Perhaps because I shouldn’t have kept it in the first place.Or—perhaps the most disturbing—because I cannot unsee my sister’s face in Eponine’s smoke-filled eyes. “What does itmatterwhy I kept it? Shouldn’t we be descending into Les Abysses now? I partook of the apple, which means we’re free to go below.”

“It matters,” Michal says firmly, catching my sleeve when I move to shove past him, “because the original initials are FT.”

FT.

FT.

Oh. He means—

FT.

The letters wash through me like a flood, but instead of carrying me away, they freeze my insides solid. “Filippa Tremblay,” I whisper, turning slowly to face him. “You think the necklace belonged to my sister.”

He answers with a small nod.

“No.” I shake my own head abruptly, forcefully, the ice in my chest melting to molten-hot conviction. I plunge the cross into my pocket and seize the apple from his hand. As it turns out, there is such a thing asimpossible, and we’ve stumbled upon it in this exact moment. Michal isn’t going to kill anyone—not if I can help it—and my sister—my dear,departedsister—couldn’t have owned this cross before Babette. Without a doubt now, Eponine is a charlatan, and Michal needs his vision checked. “It seems you’ve already forgotten our cozy little confessional. Let me remind you: Filippa has been dead for over a year. The murders started last month. She isn’t involved in this.”

“Célie,” Michal says quietly, but I refuse to hear another word. Not about this. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation neverhappened, and our pythoness is a mermaid in a gauche costume. Impulsively, I sink my teeth into the apple once more, chewing the sweet fruit without tasting it.

“There.” I lift the apple to show the pythoness my second bite. “I partook of your wretched apple again, so I demand another truth—anactualtruth this time, and not about me. I want to know about Babette Trousset.”