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“Do we have a deal or not?”

With a chilling grin, he sinks into the plush chair I just vacated. It forces him several inches below me. Still, he sprawls wide—entirely too big for the small frame, entirely too atease—and cocks his head, considering. “Fine. Let us play this silly game of yours. I will ask a question—which you will answertruthfully—and I will answer yours in turn.” He lifts a hand to tap his chest in warning, and his voice lowers. His smile fades. “But never lie to me again, pet. I will know if you do.”

I feel myself nod. His eyes track the movement, and—not forthe first time—I remember his ominous words from the ship:Shall I tell youexactlywhat I intend to do to you?That question, however, pales in comparison to his next one: “How did you summon the ghosts?”

“I— What?” I blink at the unexpected question, my palms growing damp when his eyes narrow. “What ghosts?”

“Wrong answer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t evenbelievein ghosts. Scripture makes it clear that the soul passes directly to the afterlife when the body dies—”

“I am not interested in the Church’s relationship with eternal life. I am interested inyours.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His fingers lace together. “I felt a shift in the castle earlier this morning, a peculiar charge of energy in the corridors. When I rose to investigate, I found an empty bottle of absinthe”—he points to his sideboard, where a decanter still stands empty—“and my personal belongings strung across the room. Someone drew a rather unfortunate mustache on my favorite uncle.” His eyes flick to my left, where an enormous portrait of a severe-looking gentleman glares down at us from the mantel. Someone has indeed painted a thin, curling mustache over his lip.

In any other situation, I might’ve laughed. “Ifghosts existed, they certainly couldn’t drink absinthe or hold a paintbrush. I am truly sorry for your uncle, monsieur, but as I am not the one who broke into your study—”

“No one enters my study without my knowledge, Célie Tremblay. Are you sure that you felt nothing... unusual?”

Though I try to slow my heartbeat, it’s no good. I’m still a terrible liar. I lift my chin instead. “Even if Ididsee these ghosts ofyours, I certainly didn’tsummonthem here.”

His body grows still. “You saw them?”

“I—I don’t know what I saw.” I wipe my hands on my skirt, abandoning all pretense now. “They—somethingparaded past my room this morning in a macabre sort of dance—a waltz, I think.” Though his black eyes burn into mine—strangely intent, almost angry—he still doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. I wipe my hands again, and the lace of my dress chafes my palms. “Are you saying no one saw them?”

Even I can hear my heartbeat now. Itthump, thump, thumps through my chest, my throat, my fingers, as he slowly shakes his head.

“Oh.” My stomach sinks horribly with the word. “Then how did you— Wait, that isn’t another question,” I add quickly. He tilts his head, and the quiet of the room deepens, his previous words echoing between us with each tick of the clock.

Tick—

What

Tick—

are

Tick—

you?

Adjusting the collar on my gown, abruptly warm, I grasp for something else to break the silence. “R-Right. Of course no one did. I probably imagined them, anyway. This isle—it does strange things to my head.” When his eyes narrow further, I immediately take the defensive. “It’strue. In the market, the ground seemed toweepblood, and the cats—” I stop abruptly, unwilling to share the rest. Because Michal doesn’t need to know the details. Despitewhat Christo said, the cats didn’tfollowme anywhere, and I certainly didn’t summon aghostto destroy this study.

“I heard the isle is sick,” I say instead, looking down my nose at him. “Perhaps whatever ails Requiem is also responsible for defacing your uncle’s portrait. My friend”—I dare not mention Lou’s name—“spoke of a mysterious sickness spreading through Belterra. Why shouldn’t it be spreading here too? It reallyisthe most likely explanation, and—because everything seems to have started with you murdering those poor creatures—I suggest finding a mirror if you want to cast blame. It certainly has nothing to do with me.”

Michal steeples his fingers, waiting patiently for me to finish. Which I have. I think. “Well?”

“Somehow,” he croons, “I doubt this great evil you’ve concocted would draw a mustache on Uncle Vladimir.”

“And aghostwould?”

His mouth twists as if in unpleasant memory. “I can think of one. Now—”

“Wait.” My hand darts up to silence him before I can stop it. “I have one more question.”

“I don’t think so,” he says silkily.

“But there arerulesto this game.” I square my shoulders in defiance, forcing the ghosts to a small room in the back of my mind. I will revisit them later. Or perhaps never. “You set them yourself, monsieur. You have asked three questions, and I have asked two, which means—”

His teeth click together with an audiblesnap. “You test my patience, pet.”