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“I fear the borders do not open until All Hallows’ Eve.”

I blink at him. “Why?”

“So many questions,” Odessa mutters.

“And quite the wrong ones,” D’Artagnan adds.

After frowning at both of them, I return my attention to Monsieur Marc, whose smile has become rather fixed. “Perhaps a merchant in the village will have—”

“No, no.” Clearing his throat again, he waves his hand wildly before plunging it into his waistcoat to retrieve his pocket watch. “I think not, papillon. Silver is a rather—ah,finiteresource on Requiem, and indeed, we have little need of it. You shall look dashing inemeraldon All Hallows’ Eve. Indeed, I insist on transforming you into a true and proper butterfly—”

“Finite?” A strange sensation settles in my stomach with the word. An inkling. A suspicion. In Cesarine, every dress shop bursts at the seams with ornament—if the fabric itself doesn’t sparkle,metallic beads and thread adorn every hem, every waist, every sleeve, and Requiem seems to favor the same lavish taste. It makes little sense that vampires would exclude silver from their repertoire without good reason. “My apologies,” I say at last. “Emerald wings will look lovely, of course. I understand completely.”

“Doyou?” D’Artagnan asks.

“I think so.”

A beat passes as we stare at each other. His gaze assessing. Mine challenging.

Then, with an abrupt snort, he crouches low over his anchovies once more. “Somehow, I doubt that very much—and I’d go with the pink if I were you. It suits.”

Monsieur Marc shuts his pocket watch with the definitive air of someone ending a conversation. “Eight minutes.”

I lift my chin in defiance, smiling down at D’Artagnan and ignoring the sharp stab of pressure through my ears. The fresh gooseflesh down my arms. Though a flicker of unnatural light surfaces in my periphery, I ignore it too. Because now—for the first time since arriving in Requiem—Idounderstand.

Vampires have secrets too.

“Teal it is,” I say pleasantly.

Chapter Seventeen

L’ange de la Mort

Eight minutes later, Monsieur Marc shoos us from his shop, his chest puffing with unmistakable pride. “Excellent choices, papillon, excellent choices—and I shall summon you posthaste for your All Hallows’ Eve costume, oui? I am thinking the emerald swallowtail.” He splays his fingers wide, wriggling them in emphasis. “The most beautiful butterfly of them all. You shall sparkle like la lune à vos soleils.”

The pressure in my head subsides slightly as we step outside. “That would be lovel—”

“Of course it would,” he says. “Now get out. Can you not see I must work?”

He slams the door behind us without ceremony, and relief, hesitant at first but growing stronger with each second, loosens the knot in my chest. I tip my face toward the storm clouds—toward the thunder, toward the lightning, toward the three-eyed crow—and close my eyes, inhaling deep. Because Monsieur Marc, at least, seems to like me, and he is an excellent judge of character. Because ghosts are not real, and I smell of marigolds. Because the wretched D’Artagnan will remain a cat forever, and... there is no silver on Requiem.

“You were right.” I exhale as another bout of thunder rumblesoverhead. “Spending my birthday alone would’ve been horrid, and I quite like Monsieur Marc.”

When no one answers, I open my eyes, turning to face Odessa and Dimitri with another smile—

And freeze.

Michal leans against the dark stone of the shop.

Arms crossed, deceptively casual, he studies the three of us with an inscrutable expression. On either side of me, Odessa and Dimitri have gone preternaturally still. They don’t even breathe. “As do I, Célie,” Michal murmurs. “As do I.”

Oh God.

“Michal.” Shoulders rigid, Dimitri steps in front of his sister and me. “You shouldn’t have—”

Michal lifts a pale hand. “Do not speak.”

At that, a flicker of—ofsomethingstirs deep within Dimitri’s eyes. Though I can’t quite place the emotion, it looks foreign, unsettling, on his charming face. It lifts the hair on my neck. “Should we have left her to starve?”