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She arches a supercilious brow. “Yes?”

Thick waves frame her large, deep brown eyes—wide-set and upturned, almost feline—and high cheekbones, bow lips. She has painted them plum. They match the satin of her low-cut gown, the jewels of her lavish necklace. Against the pallor of her amber skin, the entire ensemble is... well,enthralling. I shake myself mentally. “May I askwhywe are on a ship?”

“Of course you may.” Odessa tilts her head, frown deepening, and suddenly, she is the cat and I am the bird in a cage. Despite her words, fresh wariness prickles my skin. Why hasn’t she restrained me? Why are there no ropes? No chains? As if sensing my thoughts, she leans forward, dousing half of her beautiful face in shadow. “Such a clever turn of phrase, that—though undoubtedly polite, you simultaneously request my permission to ask and proceed to ask without my permission.”

“I—” I blink again, struggling to keep pace with the uncannywoman. “My apologies, mademoiselle.” When she continues to simply stare, however—those protuberant eyesentirelytoo intent upon my face—I cast about for something else to say.Anythingelse to say. I need just a few more moments before Lou and the others arrive. “Er, please forgive my ignorance, but you aren’t anything like I expected.”

“Really? And what did you expect?”

My brows furrow. “To be completely honest, I don’t know. Cruelty? A general air of malevolence? Youhavekilled five people.”

“Oh, she’s killed many more than that,” another voice—thatvoice—interjects, and I nearly leap from my skin, squeaking and whirling to face the figure directly behind me.

Him.

The cold man.

He stands entirely too close—toosilent—watching me with a derisive smirk. Cheeks flushing, I clutch my chest and try to speak without gasping, without betraying the sudden spike of my pulse. “H-How long have you been standing there?”

When he laughs, it is low and dangerous. “Long enough.”

“Yes, well, it’s quite rude to—to—” The words quickly wither on my tongue, however. Though itisrude to conceal one’s presence among company, it is altogether ruder to knock a defenseless woman unconscious and drag her into one’s foul den of iniquity. This man has done both. For all his refinery, he seems to have missed a few crucial lessons in etiquette. “Why am I here?” I ask instead. “Are you planning to exsanguinate me like Babette and the others?”

“Perhaps.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he circles me with predatory grace. The candlelight paints his stark colors—thewhite of his skin, the silver of his hair, the black of his coat—almost golden. It does nothing to soften him, however. His eyes could draw blood as they lock with mine. “Did you tell your little friend about the roses?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You should answer him,” Odessa says from her perch on the ebony box. “My cousin grows quite tedious if he doesn’t get his way.”

The man’s black eyes cut to hers. “A family trait, I’m sure.”

“No need to be prickly, darling.”

When at last he halts in front of me, I lift my face, pretending to be obstinate when in reality, I cannot look away. I have never met a person with features so fine, soferal. Still, unease skitters down my spine as he tucks a single finger beneath my chin. “Who—who are you?” I ask.

“I am much more interested in whoyouare, pet.”

With a dramatic sigh, Odessa slides from the lid of her box. “Really, cousin, you should be more specific in the future. I followed your instruction to the letter.” She lifts three fingers, revealing black nails, long and wickedly sharp. An onyx gem glitters on her knuckle, connected by a fine silver chain to the bracelet on her wrist. “Black hair, crimson cloak, companion of La Dame des Sorcières. She meets all three criteria—and she certainlysmellslike a Dame Rouge—but...” Her plum lips purse as together, the two regard me with what looks absurdly like suspicion. “She bears no scars.”

There is that word again—scars. And did Odessa say Ismelllike a Dame Rouge? How could I possibly—

Realization swoops low and swift in my stomach—sickening—as the pieces click into place, but I fight to keep my expression impassive, keenly aware of their scrutiny. Keenly aware that I’m still wearing Coco’s cloak.

I am not the only companion of La Dame des Sorcières with black hair.

On the wings of that realization comes another, equally chilling:The other one had whole constellations of them—she carved all twelve stars of the Woodwose onto her left foot.These people knew Babette. They knew her intimately enough to see her bare feet, to remember the configuration of her scars. They killed her. Certainty swells in my chest. They killed her, and now—now they’re after Coco. Curiously, the knowledge doesn’t make my heart pound or my hands tremble like it should. No. It straightens my spine, and I jerk away from the man’s touch.

They will not have Coco.

Not if I can help it.

“Is that so?” Despite my best efforts, his grip tightens on my chin, and he tilts my face back and forth in search of scars, his gaze touching my eyes, my cheekbones, my lips, my throat. His jaw hardens at the last. “What is your name?” he finally asks, and his voice is softer now. Sinister. I know better than to ignore him. My instincts tingle all over again, warning me to remain still, warning me that this man is more than he seems.

When I swallow hard, stalling, considering my response, his eyes track the movement. “Why do you want to know?” I finally ask.

“That isn’t an answer, pet.”

“That isn’t either.”