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When he straightens and snaps his fingers, the sailor behind me stands abruptly. Without his stake, his hands have stopped twitching, and whatever magic Michal has cast takes full control of him once more. He stares straight ahead without seeing. “Return her tothe ballroom,” Michal tells him. “If she attempts to escape again, I want you to retrieve your precious stake from the seafloor. Do you understand?”

The sailor nods and starts forward. When I don’t immediately follow, he halts, pivoting, and his arm shoots out to snatch my elbow. He wrenches me forward with brute strength. Though I dig in my heels—though I claw at his wrist, hissing and spitting, twisting and kicking and evenbiting—he continues to march me toward the double doors, undeterred. His blood tastes acrid in my mouth.

“My friends will come for me,” I snarl over my shoulder, grimacing when Michal appears there without warning. “They’ve done it once. They’ll do it again.”

He catches Coco’s cloak between pale fingers. It slips from my shoulders easily, draping down his arms, and the way he studies it—

An icy fist grips my heart as at last he smiles—a true smile, a devastating one—and reveals two long, wickedly sharp canines. The world seems to slow in response. The men, the ship, the ocean—it all fades into gray as I stare at him, as I stare atthem, equal parts horrified and transfixed.

Fangs.

The man has fangs.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, his black eyes glittering.

And in that moment—as I descend into the bowels of his ship—I realize Hell is empty, and the Devil is here.

Part II

L’habit ne fait pas le moine.

The clothing does not make the monk.

Chapter Twelve

The Isle of Requiem

I never learned what happened to my sister on the night of her death.

The night of her disappearance, however—thatnight I remember with excruciating clarity. I remember we argued. She’d snuck through our nursery window every night that week, all without a word to me. I still didn’t even know the man’sname. In my kinder moments, I tried to see the situation through her eyes: twenty-four years old and still sharing a nursery with her little sister. Twenty-four years old without a husband, without children, without a home and situation of her own. Perhaps she felt embarrassed. Perhaps the man lacked the title or wealth to procure her hand, so she kept their romance a secret. Perhaps a dozen other things that wouldn’t have mattered to me—hersister—because I loved her. I would’ve shared a nursery until the end of time; I would’ve eagerly championed her mysterious man, regardless of his title or wealth. I would’ve giggled with her under the blankets, would’ve oiled the window hinges for their secret rendezvous myself.

She never told me about him, however.

She never told me anything.

In my less kind moments, I wondered if she even loved me at all.

“This has to stop,” I hissed that night after the clock struckmidnight, after the telltale creak of floorboard. Flinging my coverlet aside, I swung my feet from the bed and glared at her. She froze with one hand on the window latch. “Enough is enough, Filippa.Whoeverthey are shouldn’t ask you to creep around in the dead of night to meet them. It’s too dangerous.”

Relaxing slightly, she edged the window open. Her cheeks glowed with excitement, or perhaps something else. “Go back to sleep, ma belle.”

“I willnot.” My fists curled at the term of endearment because lately, it didn’t feel endearing at all. It felt diminutive, derisive, as if she mocked me for something I didn’t understand. And itinfuriatedme. “How long before Maman and Pére catch you? You know they’ll take it out on both of us. I won’t be able to see Reid for amonth.”

She rolled her eyes and hitched a foot over the sill, trying and failing to hide the knapsack under her cloak. “Quelle tragédie.”

“What is yourproblem—?”

With an impatient sigh, she said, “Reid isn’t for you, Célie. How many times must I tell you? He’s for theChurch, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can do us all a favor and move on.” She scoffed, shaking her head, as if I was the stupidest girl in the world. “He’s going to break your heart.”

But it was more than that. For all her sisterly bluster, she used tolikeReid; she used to take no greater pleasure than forcing the two of us to play with her, to catch snowflakes and pick oranges and call her Votre Majesté, le magnifique Frostine, after her favorite fairy tale.Something had changed between them in the past year. Something had changed betweenus. “Says the woman currently dangling from the drainpipe,” I snapped, inexplicablystung. “Why hasn’t he introduced himself, Pip? Could it be he isn’t interested in a real relationship? At least Reid still wants me when the sun comes up.”

Her emerald eyes flashed. “And you’ll never know a world without sunlight, will you? Not our darling Célie. You’ll live forever safe in the light, and you’ll never wonder, never question, never glance behind to see the shadows you cast. That’s the problem with those who live in the sun.” She stepped from the sill onto the branch outside our window, turning back to add with brutal efficiency, “I feel sorry for you, little sister.”

They were the last words she ever spoke to me.

As I watch the candlelight flicker on Odessa’s face now—trapped in the dark hull of a ship—I cannot help but wonder if my sister regretted opening that window. If she regretted stepping into the shadows. Though I’ll never know, not truly, I can’t imagine that she would’ve accepted her fate. She would’ve kicked and scratched and clawed against Morgane until her body gave out—because Pippa was strong. Even at her most secretive and infuriating, she was skillful, and she was sure. She was confident.Convicted.

As if I’d ever let anything happen to you, Célie.