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Still he squeezes my elbow and says, “I’ll speak to her.”

Then, as he turns away too—

“I’m sorry, Jean.”

The words leave me in a breathless whisper, perhaps too soft for him to hear, but he still hesitates by the curtain, glancing back at me with an inscrutable expression. Perhaps he can disguise his emotions after all. With a sigh, he tips his head toward the desk, where a letter lies open upon its surface.Hisletter. “I know,” he says quietly.

When he disappears after my mother, I return to the safety of Michal’s arms, to his strong and steady presence, and rest my cheek against his chest. I still do not allow myself to cry, however; I still haven’t earned it. Indeed, I even smile a little as Brigitte stands frozen by the curtain, staring between it and me as if unsure what to do. “Not to be rude or anything,” she says at last, “but who the hell is Mila?”

Chapter Forty-Two

The Second Maelstrom

Within thirty minutes, Reid Diggory—previously renowned captain of the Chasseurs, decorated war hero, and husband of the most powerful witch alive—has become Mila Vasiliev.

Or at least, he looks a lot like her.

It took several failed attempts—several long, nerve-wracking moments as the maelstrom weakened his efforts—but slowly, piece by piece, Reid coaxed his magic into cooperating. The sharp scent of it still lingers on his skin as he presses the tip of a newly feminine finger to his nose. It breaks beneath his touch, and I wince as he groans, as the flesh of his face contorts and twists into Mila’s features: her pert nose, her full lips, her flushed cheeks. A single freckle dusts the latter—a freckle I never noticed in all the time I knew Mila.

With a pang, I realize I never knew her at all.

I knew the imprint, yes, the illusion, but I never truly mether. Though this isn’t technically her either—this is Reid breaking and re-forming his body to resemble her portrait—it still feels different, seeing her in full and glorious color. Those treacherous tears have not stopped burning since my mother’s departure, and they threaten to spill over again as the final touch of Reid’s transformation falls into place. My relief is a tangled, bittersweet thing.

Her eyes.

Warm and rich and brown, they gaze back at me from across the grotto. The exact shade of Odessa’s and Dimitri’s, yet spaced slightly farther apart and larger, rounder, with thick black lashes lined with kohl. I cannot look away. I cannot stop myself from studying her, memorizing her—the strong profile of her jaw, the delicate bones of her shoulders, the lush sable hair that cascades around her gown. Dove white. Michal described it to Reid with as much detail as possible, and the effect is... breathtaking.

Sheis breathtaking.

Michal, Odessa, and Dimitri have gone still as statues.

They stare at her like one stares at a shooting star or solar eclipse—like if they blink, they might miss her, and they’ll miss her forever.

When she groans again, however—her voice too deep, too masculine—the illusion shatters, and I force myself to take a deep, steadying breath as Reid clenches her hands into fists. “I won’t be able to hold this forever.” Each word sounds labored, pained. “The maelstrom—it’s too strong.”

“Your voice,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, clenches shut his eyes.Hereyes. “I can’t—can’t make it higher. My magic—”

Michal moves to stand beside me then. At the sound of Reid’s voice, his jaw clenches, and his black eyes gleam too bright in the candlelight. Anyone else might’ve mistaken them for tears, but I can feel the anger licking up his ribs. No. The grief. Rather than making Michal look more vulnerable, however, it makes him look somehow fiercer, predatory even. Like a wild animal caught in a trap. “You look just like her,” he tells Reid.

It does not sound like a compliment.

When Reid blinks, startled by his tone, Odessa rests a gentle hand against his arm. “Yes, you do.”

Michal’s lip curls.

Fortunately, Lou and Mathilde descend at that moment—one on either side—the former clutching his chin while the latter picks at his gown. “Her mouth is wider,” Lou says, turning Reid’s new face to examine it. Mila stands only a few inches taller than her, narrowing the height gap between them. “And her cupid’s bow is less pronounced.” She pats his cheek with a feeble hand, her freckles stark. “Yours has gone all pointy.”

Mathilde slaps her hand away. “You saw the girltwice. You are hardly the authority—”

“Yes, well—” Rolling her eyes, Lou dangles a necklace from her fingers, the gilded edges of the pendant glowing slightly as the light catches them. Inside it, a portrait of Mila smiles back at us, serene and beautiful and alive. “I am the one holding the locket, andclearly, her cupid’s bow looks different.”

Michal stiffens beside me, and I run a hand along his arm before tracing circles into his palm. He calms slightly at the touch, though his jaw remains like adamantine.

“That portrait is the size of a thimble”—Mathilde snatches the locket away, though the movement leaves her swaying slightly—“and even if it weren’t, the artist who painted it was a sham and blunderbuss to boot. In a desperate bid for glory, he eschewed civilization and forwent bathing for an entireyear, claiming nature as his one true muse. You should’ve smelled him by the end of it—absolutelyfetid—with only a handful of lousy landscapes to show for it.” She lifts the portrait to examine it more closely. “All that aside, this might be his best work. Not hard to do with Mila.” Withan exaggerated harrumph, she tucks the locket tenderly into her cloak. “You’re still wrong about her mouth, though.”

She punctuates the last by leaning heavily against the bedpost, nudging aside the kittens that claw up her legs.