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Mila wipes furiously at her cheeks. “I know that. Of course I do. I’m just being silly.”

A quiet sort of resignation settles over me. Even in death, Mila hasn’t found peace with her brother—with herself—and if I don’t tread carefully, the same will be said of me. Whether or not I hide from the truth, the Necromancer will still try to kill me. Nothing I find of my sister will change that, so why—exactly—am I so afraid to look? The worst has already happened; my sister is dead, and I refuse to follow her to the afterlife.

Not yet.

“As foryou,” Odessa says, tugging my hand until I join her on the stair. “You need to talk to my brother. Loath as I am to admit it, the thought of you plotting death and destruction doesn’t quite suit—you just aren’t the type—and Dimitri deserves the chance to defend himself.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Pulling Odessa from the stairs, I cross the room to where my deep green cloak hangs on its hook beside the armoire. “Where can I find him? His room?”

Odessa and Mila exchange a quick, furtive glance. “I’m not sure his room is the best place to meet,” Mila says after several seconds. “Perhaps in Michal’s study—”

“This is a conversation I’d rather have in private.”

Odessa forces a pained smile. “Of course it is, darling, but under the circumstances—”

I fish the silver knife from Michal’s traveling cloak, which Odessa must have hung beside mine. Her smile falters as I slide the weapon into my boot. “Under the circumstances, he has nothing to hide, correct? Why shouldn’t we meet in his room?”

The two say nothing for a long moment. Then—when I fear I’ve overplayed my hand—Mila speaks at last. “His is the third door from the left in the north tower, but—try not to judge him too harshly, Célie. He needs all of the help we can give him.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Dimitri’s Tale

Whatever I expected to find in Dimitri’s room—bodies, perhaps, or bloody manacles and jars of teeth—it isn’t the bright, colorful chamber that awaits me. Indeed, when I first step through the door, I retreat almost immediately, convinced I stumbled into the wrong room. A large fireplace illuminates the entire scene. Scarves of aquamarine, magenta, and citron drape from the ceiling and shutters, while an assortment of hats perch upon his bedposts and stack precariously on his bedside table.

Out in the corridor, I shake my head to clear it and count the doors more carefully.

One. Two. Three.

I open the door to the same strange tentlike menagerie, which means Dimitri must be—well, some sort ofhoarder. Taking a deep breath, I step over the threshold and click the door shut behind me.

Keys glitter upon the curved stone walls, along with baskets and baskets of books.Oddbooks. Warily, I creep closer and pick up the topmost one: a pocket-sized edition of the Holy Bible. Beneath it liesFashionable Cats and the People Who Sew Them. I return both books with a grimace.

It’ll take a miracle to find anything of Filippa’s in this mess.

I move to the desk next—because if there was one letter, there must be more, and if Dimitri is the one who penned them, hesurely would’ve kept them.Or, says a hopeful little voice in my head,he didn’t know Filippa at all.

That would be the best case, of course.

And also the worst.

Without a connection between Dimitri and Filippa—and therefore Babette—I have exactly zero paths forward to finding the Necromancer.

The desk, as it turns out, rivals even the clutter of the walls: perfume bottles, buttons, and rolls of mismatched coins litter its top, and inside its drawers lie matchboxes and pocket watches, a fountain pen and even a tattered old doll. Ordinary things. Mundane things.

Hundredsof them, and not a single letter in sight.

Slamming the drawer shut in both frustration and relief, I sigh heavily and turn to face the room at large. Beyond Filippa and her secret lover—beyond Dimitri and Babette and even the Necromancer—this room makes no sense.Thisis what Odessa and Mila feared I’d see? Dimitri’s collection of rubbish?

“What are you doing here?”

With a squeak, I leap away from the desk and whirl to face the door, where Dimitri stands with his arms crossed, his lips pressed flat in suspicion. “Dimitri! You’re back!”

“And you’re snooping in my room.”

“I wasn’t—if youmustknow, I wasn’t snooping anywhere. I was simply waiting foryou. The last we spoke, you wanted to have a conversation, and now—well, I’m ready to have it.”

He pushes himself from the doorjamb and into the room, closing the door with a softclick. I try not to flinch at the sound. “No, you aren’t,” he says.