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No.

Though I clap a hand to my mouth, it does little good; I cannot take the words back. They live between us now, as slick and dark as the rain upon the cobblestones. My teeth chatter as a wave of cold washes over me, as my heart plummets to somewhere between my feet. I just told them everything. Odessa already knew I wished them harm, of course—and I already knew vampires possessed some form of hypnosis—but theeasewith which she extracted my innermost thoughts is... alarming.

Worse still—she wanted me to know. She wanted me to realize how weak I am in comparison.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“I—” Though I search for the right words to fill the silence, I find none, and treacherous heat creeps through my cheeks at Dimitri’s careful expression. “I apologize,” I say at last. Even to my own ears, the words sound petulant. “I should never have tried to—well—”

His dark eyes sparkle with good humor. “Seduce me?”

“I wouldn’t call itthat.”

“Your lashes threatened to take flight.”

“Like I said,” I repeat through gritted teeth, “I am very sorry—”

“Don’t be. I quite enjoyed it.” His roguish grin soon fades atwhatever he sees in my expression. “My sister and I won’t harm you, Mademoiselle Tremblay,” he says with a sigh, “but you should forget your plans of vengeance. You cannot kill us, and you’ll only succeed in angering Michal if you try. Shall we?”

When he extends his arm as an olive branch, I stare at it in cold disbelief. I just admitted to plotting his and his entire family’s demise, yet still he wishes to be friends.

I cannot decide whether the gesture is comforting or insulting.

Chapter Sixteen

Boutique de vêtements de M. Marc

Though golden letters in the window declare it to beBoutique de vêtements de M. Marc—and a breathtaking peacock gown rotates slowly on display—the dress shop appears to be falling apart at the seams. Ivy covers nearly every inch of the dark storefront, which has been patched with mismatched stones, and the roof has fallen in on one side. A crooked silver birch curves over the hole, blocking the rain, yet bronze leaves flutter into the shop instead.

I reach out to touch the garland of lovely blue flowers brightening the door. “Careful.” With lightning-quick reflexes, Dimitri swats my fingers away as the petals begin to quiver. “The Bluebeard blossoms have started to bite.”

I clutch my hand incredulously. “Why onearthwould they bite?”

“Because the isle has turned naughty.” The door opens, and a slight, scowling vampire with wispy white hair and paper-thin skin steps out, crossing his arms at the sight of us. Two dots of pink rouge color his cheeks, and kohl lines his ancient eyes. “You’re late,” he snaps. “I expected yousixteenminutes ago.”

Over his shoulder, Odessa arches a smug brow at her brother.

Dimitri sweeps into an impeccable bow. “My apologies, Monsieur Marc. We did not expect the rain.”

“Bah! One should always expect rain in Requiem.” He lifts hisnose in my direction, sniffing disdainfully. “And just who are you? Must I beg for an introduction?”

Dimitri nudges me forward. “Allow me to present Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay, who requires an entirely new wardrobe befitting the castle, as well as a special gown for All Hallows’ Eve. She is a guest of Michal,” he explains with a devilish smile, “so expense is no object, of course.”

With a newfound sense of purpose, I follow Dimitri’s lead, dipping into a curtsy.Thisis familiar territory. After all, I’ve attended a hundred dress fittings in my life, been poked with every needle and cloaked in every fabric imaginable at my mother’s behest.

Monsieur Marc considers me through narrowed eyes. “Alas, I do not suffer tardiness from my clients. Not even from guests of Michal.” He pulls a large, cumbersome pocket watch from his vest—black silk with ivory stars—and huffs, “Seventeen minutes.”

“Did I mention it’s her birthday?” Dimitri asks. “She turns nineteen in only a handful of hours, and we thought it right she spend the momentous occasion withyou.” He clears his throat with a covert glance at me, and I straighten, unsure exactly what he expects me to do. I start with a beatific smile. It’s only slightly strained.

“They say you’re a genius with fabric, monsieur,” I offer the dressmaker kindly. “The best on the entire isle.”

Monsieur Marc waves an impatient hand. “It’s true.”

“I would consider it a great honor to wear your work.”

“Because it would be.”

“Right. Of course.” Painfully aware of his silence, I search for something else to say—anythingelse to say—before catching sight of the garland overhead and blurting, “Do you feed them? TheBluebeard blossoms?” When the silence only deepens in response, I hasten to fill it, cringing internally. “It’s just that I—I’ve never heard of carnivorous flowers before. We obviously don’t have them in Cesarine, or—well, perhaps we do, and I’ve just never seen one. My parents never approved of magical flora. They did plant an orange tree in our front yard, though,” I add miserably, my cheeks flushing pink. I force a brighter smile to combat the awkwardness. It doesn’t work.