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He pauses in licking his back leg to blink up at me. “Is that what you think is happening? Vampires caring for you?”

“Don’t be absurd—”

“Oh, good. Then we’re in agreement.” He resumes licking himself in a rather offensive manner, taking care to gift me his back end. “I worried for a moment, but itwouldbe rather absurd—even delusional—for either of us to pretend a vampire has your best interests at heart. Even your beloved Monsieur Marc poisoned me in a fit of malicious temper, and we shared the same womb.”

Unbidden, my eyes flick to the shop door, but no sound comes from beyond it. No footsteps. No voices. No screams of anguish,no cries of rebellion. Perhaps the celestial vampires have left the shop in peace, or perhaps—more likely—I simply cannot hear them; Monsieur Marcdidadmit to dallying with a witch, after all. Perhaps an enchantment lies upon this door, and they cannot hear me either, which means...

Edging toward the tattered desk, I nudge aside the boxes there as covertly as possible.

It couldn’t hurt to have a poke around. Though my search of Michal’s study didn’t yield my silver cross, it still proved useful, and Monsieur Marc doesn’t seem quite as scrupulous with his belongings as Requiem’s benevolent ruler. Hedidpoison his vampire brother, after all. Could he still possess whatever he used? Powdered arsenic? Nightshade berries?

Rat droppings?

Please let it be rat droppings.

“You seduced your brother’s wife.” Determined to maintain a casual air, I trail my hand along the crystal bottle of ink, the peacock-feather quill, in search of anything immediately out of the ordinary. A crude portrait of two teenage girls—presumably Monsieur Marc’s daughters—sits framed with pride behind a leather-bound portfolio filled to the brim with sketches. “He had every reason to be angry with you.”

“Yes, well, he stole my favorite pocket square.”

My hand stills on the handle of the desk drawer, and I crane my neck to stare at him incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”

“As opposed to what?”

“You ruined your brother’s marriage because he stole your favoritepocket square?” I shake my head and resume my search, dipping into Monsieur Marc’s drawer now. “That’s despicable,D’Artagnan. You should be ashamed of yourself as both a vampire and a cat.”

“Tit for tat—though if youmustknow, it wasn’t his marriage I ruined. His human wife died long before either of us transitioned to vampire, and she never allowed such antics.”

He blinks his great amber eyes at me in distaste, and though he has no way of knowing—he cannot readminds—a shadow of doubt still spreads through my chest in response. No. Ofshame. Only moments ago, I relished the thought of Odessa hurting that celestial vampire, so who am I to shame D’Artagnan for his behavior?

My throat tightens at the realization.

I need to escape this island as soon as possible.

As if indeed sensing my bleak thoughts, D’Artagnan says, “More to the point of despicable behavior, however, has my brother stowed your trousseau in his desk? Is there perhaps an evening gown folded among the envelopes?”

I nearly slam my fingers in the desk drawer as I hasten to shut it. “Of course not,” I say quickly—tooquickly—and I loathe myself as I adopt a wide smile, as I pat the nearest garment box with one hand and slip the blank sheet of parchment into my pocket with the other. It rustles against the inkpot and peacock quill already there. “I simply hoped to catch a glimpse of my costume before All Hallows’ Eve. Is it here in the shop? Has he finished it?”

If a cat could roll his eyes, this one would. “At least have the sense to steal more than a quill.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stupidity does not become you.” At last, he finishes his bath, bestowing me with his undivided—and, frankly, inconvenient—attention. “Go on, then. I will not stop you. I assume you intend toprocure a weapon for some madcap escape attempt—all the while failing to realize, of course, that no weapon in this shop can help you.”

Now it’smyturn to give him undivided attention. Because he didn’t sayno weapon in general; he saidno weapon in this shop, and D’Artagnan doesn’t strike me as one to speak without thinking. “For your information, Idohave a plan,” I tell him. “Or at least”—abandoning all attempts at subtlety, I fling open the cabinet beside the desk to widen my search—“I’m in the process of forming one, and it isn’t madcap at all. It’s rather simple, actually.”

“Does it involve the quill and ink in your pocket?”

“It might.”

“Then I regret to inform you, foolish girl, that there is nothing simple about sending a letter on Requiem.”

I move swiftly to the bookcase, pulling out each tome in hopes of loosening something. A packet of powder, perhaps, or a secret lever. “Nonsense. Do you not have an aviary?”

“Of course we have an aviary, but it resides on the northern shore of the isle, which—in case such trivial matters as revolt and rebellion have escaped your notice—is no longer safe. The streets are restless, and the citizens are eager for a martyr. Without Michal as protection, you will be... marked.”

Marked.

The word should lift the hair at my neck, but I return the last book to its shelf before whirling to face the rest of the room, scouring the cramped space anxiously. Despite D’Artagnan’s rather unexpected warning, there are no true safeguards here. Michal marked me the instant he saw Coco’s scarlet cloak. I am no moresafewith him than I am in the streets.