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Tears Like Stars

I cry on those steps for so long that my knees begin to ache, that my eyes begin to burn. When my body refuses to shed another tear—wholly spent and exhausted—I shift to sit more comfortably, peering blearily at the street around me for the first time. Though Les Abysses must lie somewhere beneath my feet, this looks like a perfectly ordinary middle-class neighborhood. Modest brick homes line either side of the cobblestones, complete with small yet tidy gardens, and the occasional cat sunbathes in a window. Down the way, a little boy in a woolen coat plays fetch with his dog, but otherwise, the villagers here have already started their day—the men to their desks, the women to their household duties. It’s all very comfortable. Very quiet.

I cannot stand it.

Once upon a time, I would’ve imagined one of these homes as my own. I would’ve dreamed about owning a dog—a yappy little terrier—and a garden, where I would’ve planted roses that climbed around an oak front door, and my sister would’ve lived right next door. I would’ve kissed my husband every day, and together, the two of us would’ve done something worthwhile with our lives—perhaps owned a bakery, a gallery, or just a boat instead. We could’ve sailed around the world having swashbucklingadventures with our dog, or perhaps with our dozens of children. We could’ve been happy.

Life isn’t a fairy tale, Célie.

Sniffling, I huddle against the crisp autumn wind. Though no one strolls past on their morning walk—and no reward signs flutter upon these doorsteps—I cannot remain here forever. Who knows how many people have peered through their curtains and spotted me? Perhaps they’ve already alerted the Chasseurs. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame them; I’m not exactly inconspicuous. Indeed, I feel garish in such bright sunlight—wan and exposed and covered in blood. Like a carcass left to rot in fresh snow.

Perhaps it’syourapproval you’re so desperate to earn.

Like a broken tooth, I bite down on Michal’s words over and over again.Perhapsyouare the one who sees yourself as a pretty doll.He spoke them with such conviction, such impatience, as if he couldn’t hold them in for a second longer. As if he knew me better than I know myself—because that’s what he implied, isn’t it? That I don’t understand my own emotions, my own desires? Shivering slightly, I thrust my stiff fingers into my pockets. Despite the sunshine, I feel colder than usual, uncomfortable in my skin.

I should go back inside. Whatever Michal said about me, I cannot return to my life in West End, andthatI know for certain. I will never own a boat or a rose garden or an oak front door, never live beside my sister. The thought of my father’s smug expression when he realizes I’ve failed—or my mother’s tight concern—brings bile to my throat. I cannot face them. I cannot faceanyone, least of all Michal, yet what choice do I have? Once again, he is somehow the lesser evil, and—andhowdid it become this way?How did I come to choose the company of an arrogant and imperiousvampireto my own flesh and blood?

Says the woman whose sister gave that cross to Babette.

Reluctant, I slide the silver cross from my pocket to examine it once more. It glows near blinding in the sunlight, brighter and clearer than ever before, and if I angle it a certain way—my stomach contracts—itdoeslook like the initials could’ve originally readFT. The curves of theBseem fainter than the other lines. Newer. Just like the additions in La Voisin’s grimoire. My thumb traces the scalloped edges of the cross without truly seeing them. Because how could my sister have owned this necklace? Had sheactuallybeen involved with Babette and this Necromancer, or had Babette stolen the cross from her somehow? My thumb presses harder against its edges. Impatient. Perhaps the FT who owned this necklace wasn’t Filippa Tremblay at all, but someone else. Perhaps Michal doesn’t have acluewhat he’s talking about, forcing him to grasp at straws like all the rest of us.

You don’t know a thing about me.

Neither do you, apparently, if you think sacrificing yourself for those humans had anything to do with them.

Miserable, I move to rise, but at that precise second, my thumb catches on a scallop sharper than the rest. Right along the edge of the horizontal arm of the cross. I glance down at it absently—then gasp. Leaning closer, I stare at the ornate mechanism hidden within the whorls, convinced I must be mistaken. Because itlookslike some sort of—some sort ofclasp, which would mean the cross isn’t a cross at all, but a locket.A locket.Holding my breath, I lift the cross right to my nose. Surely Michal would’ve realized if thecross opened; surely he would’ve seen it as plainly as he saw the true initials, yet... I tilt the cross in the sunlight once more. The clasp is very cleverly hidden, and if I hadn’t felt along this precise edge, I never would’ve noticed it at all.

A fluttery sensation erupts in my belly.

Such a small, hidden compartment would be the perfect place to keep a secret.

Anxious now—mouth suddenly dry—I pry open the little door with my thumb, and a minuscule scrap of parchment flutters onto my lap. My breath hitches at the sight of it. Yellowed and torn, the parchment has been folded to the size of my nail, yet clearly it must’ve been important if the owner wore it so close to their heart. With trembling fingers, I unfold the parchment and begin to read:

My darling Filippa,

It looks like Frost tonight. Meet me under our tree at midnight, and the three of us will be together forever.

Two lines. Two simple sentences. I stare at them as if sheer concentration alone will make them untrue, rereading the words twice, three times, four. The rest of the letter has been torn away, probably discarded. My heart skips painfully every time I see her name at the top, as clear and indisputable as the sky overhead—Filippa.

There can be no doubt now.

This cross belonged to her.

This note—she read it too, held it in her hands, before stowing it inside this locket for safekeeping. Had her lover given her thecross as well? Had he carved her initials into the side and intended them as a promise, like Jean Luc’s ring to me?

Meet me under our tree at midnight, and the three of us will be together forever.

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. How long did he wait under that tree, I wonder, before realizing she would never come? Before realizing their dream had only ever been that—a dream? And who is this mysterious third person he mentioned?The three of us will be together forever.I frown at that line, the first tendrils of unease unfurling down my spine. Surely he hadn’t meant Babette. Filippa would’ve received this note while alive, so Babette would’ve been too busy caring for her sickly sister to run away with anyone. And why had he capitalized the wordFrost? Indeed, the longer I stare at the letter, the less any of it makes sense.

It looks like Frost tonight.

Frost.I wrack my brain, trying to place the word, but all I can imagine are glittering tufts of grass in the moonlight, perhaps a spire on Filippa’s imaginary ice palace. Had he mentioned the frost to alert Filippa of leaving potential tracks? I snort at the thought—of my mother and father trailing her at midnight, examining her footprints on the lawn—but truthfully, nothing about this is amusing. No, I feel rather sicker than I did before finding the note, and part of me wishes I’d left well enough alone. I refold the letter with cold fingers.

Pippa didn’t want me to know about this part of her life. She must’ve had her reasons, and I—

I didn’t know her at all.

Pressing my lips tight, hunching my shoulders against thewind, I tuck the letter back into the locket, pressing the silver door closed once more. I won’t tell Michal about the note. I won’t tell him anything about Filippa. He’ll want to—to study her, to track her last movements, and what on earth could we possibly find? My sister didn’t kill anyone,wouldn’tkill anyone, and even with this locket as a tenuous connection to Babette and the Necromancer—how could Filippa have known them, really? How could she have worked with them? Morgane killed her before the murders in Cesarine even started.No.I shake my head resolutely, vehemently, and rise to my feet.My sister wasn’t involved in this.