Page 53 of The Scarlet Veil

“Oh, it’s monsieur now, is it?”

The door to the workroom bursts open in response, and Monsieur Marc strides through with his assistants in tow. Though a measuring tape remains nowhere to be seen, both balance several bolts of fabric in their arms: emerald silk, black wool, and deep lapis-blue satin. “I poisoned him, of course,” he says, voice genial. “For seducing my consort.”

“After which, of course,” D’Artagnan says scathingly, “yourmistress trapped my soul in the body of a wretched animal for all eternity.”

“Ah, Agatha.” Monsieur Marc chuckles, and a dreamy look passes over his powdered face. “I’ve never met a witch with such proclivity to eternal torment. You should never have killed her. Death by cat is aterribleway to go—quite slow, you know, and rife with pain.” Turning to me, he snaps his fingers and says, “Well? Have you chosen your fabrics, papillon?”

“I—” My eyes fall to the rack of metallics, where my hands clutch both a glittering magenta and a deep emerald green. Swiftly, I forage for any hint of gold, finding a brilliant satin swathe of it at the very end of the rack. I seize it without thinking. “This one, of course—for an evening gown. Don’t you agree?”

His misty eyes narrow at the fabric as if it has personally offended him. “Do you suffer from color blindness?”

“Pardon?”

“Color blindness,” he repeats emphatically. “Do you suffer from it? Or—perhaps—you come from a realm wheregoldis considereda cool tone?” Wincing, I return the satin to the rack as quickly as possible, searching for a swathe of silver instead. Before I can find it, however, Monsieur Marc shakes his head with impatience and snaps his fingers once more, signaling for his assistants to present the green, black, and blue fabrics. “Soft pink, too, I think,” he tells them, “or perhaps a nice teal—”

“Teal?” D’Artagnan makes a derisive sound from his basket. “Tell me, brother, did your good sense die with me?”

“Andwhat, precisely, is wrong with the color teal? It symbolizes clarity, originality—”

“There could be nothing less original about this young woman.”

“Is that your official verdict?”

“Will it change your mind either way?”

“No, of course. An enemy of my enemy is a friend, which makes you, papillon”—he turns to me, clapping his hands together in delight—“my new favorite customer.”

I gape between them, incredulous. And perhaps a touch indignant. “You think I’munoriginal?”

“Oh, come now,” says Monsieur Marc kindly. “If everyone were original, no one would be. Which is quite the point.”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.”

D’Artagnan licks his paw once more, thoroughly unbothered, in the feline equivalent of a shrug. “Life is long, and opinions change. If it bothers you, prove me wrong.” When I open my mouth to tell him, well—I don’tknow, exactly—he turns away from me altogether, sniffing Odessa’s cloak. “For now, I am afraid you’ve lost my interest. Whatdoescontinue to interest me, however, are the anchovies in your pocket, Mademoiselle Petrov.”

With a supercilious smile, Odessa withdraws a small tin, opening it to reveal a row of small, slimy-looking fish. She offers them to D’Artagnan, who tucks in with the complacent air of having done this a hundred times before. I stop searching the rack abruptly. Again, Ishouldfeel immense relief at this revelation, yet the indignation in my chest only flares higher. Of course D’Artagnan dislikes Dimitri and me in comparison—we don’t carryfisharound in our pockets. “You’re the reason the cats have been following us,” I say accusingly.

Odessa’s smile fades. “The cats haven’t been followingus, Célie.”

“But—”

“Papillon!” Monsieur Marc huffs and plants his hands on his hips. “Focus, s’il vous plaît! My next appointment arrives inelevenminutes, which leaves us approximately two minutes and thirty-six seconds to choose the rest of your fabric. Boris, Romi—”

He motions to his assistants, who pull measuring tapes from their aprons and thrust me toward the dais. Their hands are cold as they take my size.

“Silver.” I speak the word through gritted teeth, keeping hold of my patience by a very short leash. “I’d like to request a silver gown, please, instead of the teal or pink.” I expect him to huff again, perhaps roll his pale eyes and point to an entire cupboard filled with silver fabric, yet he does neither of those things.

Indeed, no one reacts at all how I expect.

The assistants both halt their ministrations, going completely still, while Monsieur Marc plasters a too-wide, too-bright smile upon his face. Odessa and Dimitri exchange a wary glance, andD’Artagnan—he looks up from his anchovies, whiskers twitching slightly as he considers me. “Yes, brother,” he says sleekly. “Whereisthe silver fabric?”

Monsieur Marc clears his throat. “Completely sold out, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?”

“You know it is.”

Despite his smile, his voice sounds strained, and though there is nothing inherentlywrongwith his explanation, it doesn’t feel right either. Not in a shop like this. Not when he offers at least four different shades of gold in a variety of fabrics. “When will the next shipment arrive?” I ask. “I assume you’ve placed an order to replenish your stock.”