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“A critical development withwhat?” I snap.

The initiate—several years younger than me, perhaps fourteen—straightens like I’ve slapped him, his brows furrowing in confusion. He lowers his voice earnestly. “The bodies, mademoiselle.”

My eyes narrow in disbelief as I glance between him and Jean. “Whatbodies?”

“That’s enough.” Jean Luc speaks sharply before the initiate can answer, herding him out the door and shooting a wary glance over his shoulder at me. He doesn’t allow me to demand an explanation. He doesn’t allow me to fling the towel or seize his coat or scream my frustrations to the heavens. No. He shakes his head curtly, already turning away. “Don’t ask, Célie. It doesn’t concern you.” He hesitates at the door, however, his voice apologetic and his eyes full of regret. “Please don’t worry.”

Chapter Five

Crimson Roses

I wait longer than strictly necessary before creeping into the hall, praying the others remain in the yard. I don’t want to see them. Indeed, in this moment, I never want to see another blue coat or Balisarda again.

I’m not sulking, of course.

Jean Luc can keep his filthy secrets. Apparently, it doesn’t matterwhat I’ve done for this kingdomorwhat I’ve sacrificed; it doesn’t matter what he spouts in the training yard. Apparently, those are just words—no,placationsfor me and for Frederic and for our dear captain himself. Iampretty porcelain, after all. I might shatter at the slightest touch. Brushing furious tears from my cheeks, I storm upstairs, tearing off my ugly coat, my sodden skirt, and flinging both to the corner of my room. Part of me hopes they’ll rot there. Part of me hopes they’ll putrefy and crumble, so I might never wear them again.

Does it not feel like you’re playing dress-up?

My hands curl into fists.

I stopped playing dress-up at fifteen years old—entirelytooold, as far as Filippa was concerned. She told me as much the first night I caught her sneaking from our nursery. I’d fallen asleep in my tiara—a book about the ice princess Frostine still sprawled across my chest—when her footsteps woke me. I’ll never forgetthe look of scorn on her face, the way she scoffed at my petal-pink nightgown. “Aren’t you a little old for pretend?” she asked me.

It was not the last time I cried over my sister.

Silly little Célie.

I stand in my room for another moment—breathing heavily, my chemise dripping—before heaving a sigh and stalking after my uniform. With cold, clumsy fingers, I hang the blue wool by the mantel to dry. Already, a servant has stoked the dying embers of last night’s fire, probably at Jean Luc’s request. He heard my screams last night. He hears themeverynight. Though Tower rules prevent him from coming to me, from comforting me, he does what he can. Fresh candles arrive at my door twice a week, and flames always roar in my hearth.

I drop my forehead to the mantel, swallowing another hot wave of tears. The emerald ribbon around my wrist—a talisman, of sorts—has nearly come undone from my spat with Frederic, and one tail of the bow trails longer than the other, the pretty loops now limp and pitiful. Just like me. Clenching my teeth, I carefully retie the silk and choose a snow-white gown from the armoire, heedless of the gale outside. By the door, I pluck a bottle-green cloak from its hook and swing the heavy velvet around my shoulders.

Jean Luc is busy.

And I am going to visit my sister.

Father Achille intercepts me in the foyer before I can escape. Striding from the sanctuary—presumably on his way to speak with Jean Luc—he hesitates, frowning, when he sees the lookon my face. In his hand, he clutches a small book. “Is something wrong, Célie?”

“Not at all, Your Eminence.” Forcing a bright smile—acutely aware of my swollen eyes and red nose—I study the book as discreetly as possible, but I can’t discern the faded letters on its cover. It certainlylooksthe same size as the book in Jean Luc’s pocket last night. Everything from its yellowed, loose-leaf pages to its battered, leather-covered spine feels ominous, however. And is that dark stain...blood? When I look closer—nearly squinting now, throwing caution to the wind—he clears his throat and shifts pointedly, hiding the book behind his back. I smile harder. “Apologies for my attire. The rain soaked my uniform while I trained with Frederic this morning.”

“Ah. Yes.” He shifts again, clearly uncomfortable with the silence that falls between us. As a rather surly, cantankerous old man, Father Achille would rather fall on his Balisarda than address my tears, yet—to the surprise of both of us, I’m sure—he doesn’t leave, instead scratching awkwardly at his grizzled beard. Perhaps his newfound position as the Archbishop still hasn’t hardened him as it did his predecessor. I hope it never does. “Yes, I heard about Frederic. Are you all right?”

My smile becomes a grimace. “Did Jean Luc not mention that I bested him?”

“Oh?” He clears his throat and keeps scratching, averting his dark eyes to his boots, to the window, to anything and everything except my face. “That part—er, no, it didn’t come up, I’m afraid.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes I wonder why God commands us never to lie.

“Right.” I lift my fist to my heart, inclining my neck and inching past him. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Célie, wait.” He waves me back with a beleaguered sigh. “I have no talent for this, but—well, if you ever need an ear that doesn’t belong to your fiancé, I can still hear a little.” He hesitates for another painful second—still scratch, scratch,scratching—and I pray for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I suddenly don’t want to address my tears either. I just want toleave. When he meets my gaze a second time, however, his hand falls, and he nods with resignation. “I was a lot like you once. I didn’t know where I fit in here. Didn’t know if Icouldfit in here.”

I frown at him, startled. “But you’re the Archbishop of Belterra.”

“I wasn’t always.” He ushers me toward the grand entrance of Saint-Cécile, and inexplicable affection for him blooms in my chest as he hesitates, unwilling to leave me just yet. Though the rain has stopped, a fine sheen of moisture still douses the steps, the leaves, the cobblestone street below. “You can’t live for one moment, Célie.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you stabbed that injection into Morgane le Blanc—the strongest and cruelest witch this kingdom has ever known—you did a great thing for Belterra. An admirable thing. But you’re more than great and admirable. You’re more than that moment. Don’t let it define you, and don’t let it dictate your future.”