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I loved her too much to leave.

Knock, knock, knock.

I closed my sister’s book carefully, as if breaking the silencemight somehow break our mother too. “Someone is at the door,” I murmured, but she said nothing in return. I waited another moment, unsure how to manage the situation delicately. I’d never experienced an illness such as hers—never experienced such sickening apathy, such bone-deep exhaustion. For three days now, it had felt as if someone had hollowed out my mother and forgotten to fill her with something else. She simply... existed. “It could be news of Filippa,” I added tentatively.

“And what news might that be?”

“That—that they found her.”

“Oh? What do you think they’ll have found?” When I frowned at her, confused, she closed her eyes as if unable to look at me, even in her periphery. “Your sister is dead.”

She spoke the words with such flat acceptance that I pushed to my feet abruptly, trembling all over, and sentThe Winter Queentumbling to the floor. Hastening to retrieve it as the knocking continued, I said, “Or—or it could be Pére instead. He might’ve sent a letter, or a—a gift. He hasn’t sent one in ages, and you’ve been asking for a token of his travels—the pearl necklace, remember? And I asked for a new book—”

Get up, I pleaded privately.Please, Maman, just get out of bed—

Her gaze found mine at last, and in her eyes, derision flickered. Disgust. The first emotions I’d seen in days. “He is not selling his wares, you foolish girl. He is purchasing those of another—a whore by the name of Helene.”

Whore.Though I’d heard the word whispered in passing, I’d never encountered it like this—spat in my face like venom, startling and acidic. I recoiled from it, fromher, blinking in shock and stammering, “But he wouldn’t—he’d never—”

“Get out.” Her voice emptied of all feeling again as she returned her gaze to the ceiling, as theknock, knock, knocking continued downstairs. I remained rooted to the spot, however, desperate to somehow reach her, until she snapped, “Now.”

So I did.

Still clutching that book of fairy tales, I walked down the stairs alone, and I pulled open the front door. When I saw Reid and Jean Luc standing on the steps in their freshly pressed uniforms, I knew—with a sick, swooping sensation in my stomach—that my mother had been right. That this was not good news.Filippa.Her name caught in my throat even as I saw it in their eyes. Though Jean Luc tried to hide it—averting his gaze, studying the parquet pattern of the dusty floor—Reid never hesitated to perform his duty. How many times had I held his hand after he delivered tragic news to unsuspecting relatives? How many times had he collapsed beneath our orange tree, pale and shaken, after consoling fresh widows and orphans? “They need someone to sit with them,” he’d told me when I suggested one of his brethren do the job instead. “No one likes to sit in another person’s pain—not when there isn’t anything to be done about it.” At my pursed lips and skeptical expression, he would pull me down in front of him, wrapping his arms around my chest and resting his chin atop my head. “And there is nothing to be done about grief.”

I hadn’t understood then, but I did now.

And when he stepped forward to holdmyhand this time, a terrible ringing started in my ears. Without a word, he led me inside the foyer as Jean Luc hesitated behind us. “Célie—” he started, but I hardly heard him.

The entire scene had taken on a surreal, nightmarish quality,and I no longer felt part of my own body.This isn’t real. This cannot be happening.

Too late, I realized the book had fallen again. I’d dropped it, left it there on the threshold, and now Reid was guiding me to the bottom step of the grand staircase. He was kneeling in front of me, waiting for me to meet his gaze, but I couldn’t meet his gaze—because as soon as he spoke, everything would change,everything, yet also nothing at all. My sister would be gone, and I’d be alone; this cold and empty room would never belong in her book of fairy tales, and neither would we.

As if I’d ever let anything happen to you, Célie.

And suddenly, I couldn’t stand to hear those last, damning words from anyone but me. I owed her that much. I owed her everything—should’ve followed her, should’ve dragged her back and bolted the window—but I refused to betray her now by cowering again. My sister never cowered.

Locking eyes with Reid, I said, “Filippa is dead, isn’t she?”

Behind him, Jean Luc shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps we should get your father—”

“My father isn’t here.” My voice sharpened to a knifepoint as I glared between them—abruptly angry,soangry—and dared either to dissent as the situation crashed back to reality with brutal and blistering clarity.Whore, my mother had said, and the word stuck with me in a way no other word did. Because my sister was dead, my mother was broken, and my father was gone, unaware, cavorting with another woman while our family splintered like a mirror, distorting our reflections. “He left over a week ago on another business venture, and my mother refuses to leave her bed. If you bring news of my sister, I am the only one to tell.” Pushing tomy feet, I strode past them to the threshold, seized the book, and clutched it fiercely to my chest. “So I’ll ask again, and I implore you to answermethis time: Is my sister dead?”

A beat of silence met my outburst. Then—

“Yes.” Reid shattered the illusion of our family with a single word. “I’m sorry, Célie. I’m so sorry.”

I refused to cry until they left an hour later, until the door clicked shut and I slid against it, hurlingThe Winter Queenacross the room and cursing Morgane, cursing witches, cursing Reid and Jean Luc, my father and his whore, my mother and this empty, godforsaken house. I even cursed my sister, who went where I couldn’t follow and who I’d never see again.

Most of all, however, I cursed myself.

And when the tears came, they did not stop—not for a single moment, not even now.

I am so sick of crying.

“He wants us to fight,” I say now to Michal and Dimitri, who both listen with rapt attention. “Death wants to distract us while he finds a way to destroy the veil. He wouldn’t have mentioned your arrangement otherwise. He knew I would tell Michal, and he knew what would follow—a rift in your relationship, your family.” Before anyone can speak, I pivot to appeal to Odessa, whose hand still trembles slightly upon Panteleimon’s head. “I know I cannot ask you to trust your brother again, but can you trust me instead? Please? This isn’t a fight we’ll win while fighting among ourselves.” At Michal’s scowl, I add, “Dimitri needs to drink Death’s blood, but perhaps we can use their deal to our advantage—”

“Or we could simply kill him,” Michal says.