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“Would you mind not mentioning this to anyone? I don’t want my sister to worry—nothing is wrong, of course—and Michal and I, well...” He shrugs a little helplessly. “We just don’t need any more misunderstandings, what with his beastly manners and all. You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Tell himwhat?”

He studies me fervently for several seconds, indecision clear in his gaze. “Nothing,” he says at last, and that strange color in his cheeks flushes deeper. “Please, forgive me. I should’ve never—nomatter.” His jaw flexes as silence descends between us, and we draw to a halt outside a pair of enormous ebony doors. “This is it,” he says quietly.

At last, I succeed in wrenching my arm away from him. He doesn’t fight me this time. No. Instead he ducks his head in apology, stepping back as if equally keen on putting distance between us. And I feel vaguely nauseous. I don’t understand this,anyof it, and I’m not certain I ever will. This place, these people—they’re all sick.

Something is wrong, Célie.

It isn’t just the trees and roses. The land itself... it feelssicksomehow. My magic feels sick.

Dimitri winces at my expression and bows low. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I am sorry. This—well, I envisioned this all going much differently in my head, and I’m sorry.”

My head begins to ache, yet still I must ask, “Why is the castle humming at my arrival? Why are the servants talking about me?”

He does not answer, walking backward in earnest now. At the last second, however, he hesitates, and something akin to regret shadows his features. “I am sorry,” he repeats. “Sweet creatures never last long in Requiem.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves.

I have little time to contemplate his warning, however—no matter how ominous—because in the next second, the ebony doors swing inward, and Michal appears between them. For several seconds, he says nothing. Then he arches a brow. “Is it not rude to linger in doorways? By all means...” He extends a pale hand, those black eyes never leaving mine. “Join me.”

Chapter Fourteen

A Game of Questions

To my surprise, Michal’s study is small. Intimate. Emerald-green panels of silk line the walls, while a dark, lacquered desk dominates the center of the room. On it, all manner of curious objects tick and whirl—a golden pendulum clock in the shape of a beautiful woman, a floating silver-and-pearl egg, an ivy plant with deep green leaves. Beneath the last sits a stack of leather-bound books. They look ancient.

Expensive.

Indeed, everything in this room looks expensive, and I—

I glance down at my snowy white gown, but the delicate lace has been stained irrevocably—soaked,ruined—and now resembles the inside of a threadbare shoe. Not quite brown and not quite gray. Not quite comfortable either. It chafes my skin as I shift beneath Michal’s cold stare.

“Please.” He sits behind the desk with his elbows propped atop it, his fingers steepled as he considers me. When I drag my gaze to his, he inclines his head toward the plush seat across from him. Flames roar in the hearth beside it, flooding the room with light and delicious warmth. As in my chamber, however, shutters barricade the arched windows behind him. They seal us in like relics in a crypt. “Sit.”

From my place by the door, I do not budge an inch. “No, thank you, monsieur.”

“It wasn’t a request, mademoiselle. You will sit.”

I still refuse to move.

Because in the middle of his desk, among the books and the ivy and the clock, stands a jewel-encrusted goblet filled with more blood. I try not to look at it—because if I considerwhythere is blood in that goblet, I might scream. I might scream and scream until I cannot scream any longer, or perhaps until Michal tears out my vocal cords and hangs me with them.

With a cold smile, he tilts his head as if sharing the same black fantasy. “Are you always this tiresome?”

“Not at all.” Lifting my chin, I clasp my hands behind my back to hide their tremble. “I simply prefer to stand. Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Unfortunately, Célie Tremblay, I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

Célie Tremblay.

Though I blanch at the sound of my real name, he doesn’t seem to notice. With one hand, he slowly drags a stack of parchment to the center of his desk. “Such a beautiful name, that—Célie Tremblay.” Still smiling, he repeats my name as if relishing the taste of it on his tongue. “Born October twelfth in the kingdom of Belterra, the city of Cesarine. Specifically, born in the home of 13 Brindelle Boulevard, West End. Daughter of Pierre and Satine Tremblay and sister of the late Filippa Tremblay, who perished at the hand of Morgane le Blanc.”

I exhale a harsh breath at the mention of my sister. “How do you—?”

“Your parents didn’t raise you, though, did they?” He doesn’t bother glancing down at his stack of parchment; apparently, hememorized the information there. He memorizedme. “No, that responsibility fell to your nursemaid, Evangeline Martin, who perished in the Battle of Cesarine earlier this year.”

My stomach pitches like I’ve missed a step.