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“In light of the circumstances,” Beau says, his voice wry, “I think she’ll forgive you. I had a rather special gift planned myself before I realized we’d be spending the majority of the night luring a murderous witch onto a subarctic balcony. It really is colder than a witch’s tit out h—Why do your eyes look like that?”

He leaps away from me, appalled, and the temperature plummets as my regret ties each frayed nerve into a neat little bow. It weighs me down, down,downuntil I step through the veil into the otherworld, where Mila lounges upon the nearest tree branch, her skirt and hair billowing in the wind.

Grinning, she flicks the bells on Beau’s hat in haphazard rhythm. “What took you so long?”

My gaze flicks from her to the hat, widening in indignation. “It wasn’t the wind at all. It wasyou.”

Beau stares at me like I’ve grown a second head before whipping his own toward the tree, where Mila grins broader and switches mid-jingle to a truly galling Christmas hymn. “Who are you talking to?” he asks, wide-eyed. “And why—why are those bells suddenly playing ‘The Friendly Beasts’?”

“Stop it, Mila.” I march over to the balustrade, stretching on tiptoe to snatch the hat away from her, but it dangles just out of reach. “You’re scaring him.”

“You’re the one talking to thin air, Célie.”

“Just give me the hat!”

“Whatis going on?” Beau strides forward and seizes my hand, pulling me away from the tree limb with an alarmed expression. “And who isMila? Is it—is it the tree? Is the tree named Mila?”

Sighing, I wrench my hand away and glare at the ghost in question. “No, the tree is not namedMila,” I snap. “The name belongs to Michal’s dead sister, Mila Vasiliev, and if she doesn’t stop jingling that hat, I might have to kill her all over again.”

Beau blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You asked to whom I’m talking—her name is Mila, and the Necromancer killed her several months ago.” His eyes threaten to pop out of his head now, but I ignore him, crossing my arms and giving myself a vicious mental shake. Because Mila’s rendition of “The Friendly Beasts” matters even less than Beau’s ridiculous hat. We’resupposedto be acting like I needed a moment outside to compose myself, not arguing about bells and ghosts. Lowering my voice, I ask Mila, “Have you seen... anyone yet?”

Her grin fades, and she stops playing the bells at once. “Morethan one, unfortunately. I hope Michal is prepared to give his little warning teeth, because over a hundred creatures have arrived in Requiem tonight—dozens of blood witches included—and any one of them could be our necromancer.”

“Are yousureabout that?” Guinevere’s horribly familiar voice precedes her from the ballroom, and together, we turn just as she drifts through the mahogany doors to join us. I endeavor not to groan. “I thought you said the Necromancer was amaleblood witch. That narrows the candidates quite a bit, Mila darling.”

Ghosts, I decide, will be the death of me.

Though I hastily open my mouth to tell her togo away, I change my mind at once—because who am I to turn down information? Without it, Beau and I can do nothing but sit here and wait for the worst. “Approximately how many of them have you seen, Guinevere? Are any in the castle?”

“Guinevere?” Beau asks faintly.

Her eyes light upon him then, and they spark with gleeful interest. “Hold on a moment. Who isthis?”

Oh no.

Before I can answer, she darts forward—right into his personal space—and slants her head, studying him from the tips of his black hair to the soles of his leather boots. Even his costume doesn’t deter her. If anything, it seems to add to the attraction; with a noise of appreciation, she strokes a finger down his spangled sleeve. “This,” she says, “is a welcome development.”

I swat her hand away as Beau recoils from the cold, invisible touch. “Don’t even think about it, Guin.”

Exhaling sharply, Beau backs toward the doors and drags me along with him. “Célie, darling, you seem to be feelingmuchbetter.Perhaps the two of us should return to the party and—”

His hand tightens on my elbow, and in his dark eyes, I finally see the floating, pearlescent forms of Mila and Guinevere reflected back at me. “Holy fucking Hell,” he breathes, pointing a shaking finger. “They’re—Célie, they’re—”

“Ghosts,” I finish in resignation. “If it helps, you can only see them because you’re touching me. The instant Guinevere oversteps”—I shoot her a pointed look—“you can let go, and you never need to see her again.”

Scoffing, Guinevere floats around us in a circle. “Now why onearthwould he want to do that?” To Beau, she purrs, “Guinevere de Mimsy, at your service. No need to ask whoyouare, of course. Even forced into a clown suit, one could never mistake those tousled waves and that chiseled jaw for anything other than nobility.”

Though Beau gawks at her, incredulous, he cannot help but mutter, “Royalty.”

If she could, Guinevere would surely bounce on tiptoe at the news, but her incorporeal form forces her to swell three times her size instead. “YourMajesty.” She clutches a hand to her chest. “HowhonoredI am to meet you.”

With an air of impatience, Mila shoots forward, plucking a velvet box from the depths of Beau’s breast pocket. I didn’t notice it before, and even Beau startles slightly as she waves it under Guinevere’s nose. “Do you know what this is, Guin?” She plunges on before Guinevere can answer. “Thisis all the incentive you need to leave the poor man alone.” Flicking it open, she reveals a gold ring with a magnificent ruby centerpiece. It sparkles so brightly, sobeautifully, that I gasp and seize it from her, examining it from every direction in the moonlight.

“Is this—?” I whirl to face Beau, and now it’smyturn to bounce on tiptoe, an enormous smile splitting my face in two. “Beauregard Lyon, is this anengagementring?”

He snatches it away, hastily checking for damage before tucking it into his pocket once more. Sheepish now, he says, “It might be.”