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The Archbishop snarls as if to punctuate the words, and slowly, I nod.

I’ve been such a fool... so wholly absorbed in my own self-pity that I failed to notice everything crumbling around me. Lou and her magic. Filippa. Grave robbers.Revenants.

They are all connected, somehow.Weare all connected.

“Very well.” Odessa adjusts the hatbox, and in the next second, Lou flicks her wrist, sending the Archbishop plummeting awkwardly into its dark depths. Odessa slams the lid shut on its final shriek. She flips the clasp. Instantly, the box begins to fold inward once more, growing smaller and smaller until she tucks it back into the folds of her skirt.

Without the Archbishop’s snarls, the night seems rather quiet.

Rather empty.

“Come on.” With an anxious glance over her shoulder, Coco slips her arm through mine, leading me toward the house. “We shouldn’t linger in the street.”

Chapter Seven

A Multitude of Dreams

Coco and Beau return to the castle around six o’clock in the morning. Instinctively, I know they won’t be staying here any longer—there is too much to be done, too much to learn about this new threat. We’re all exhausted, however, and Lou pulls me aside after they’ve gone, pressing a small bottle into my palm. “To help you sleep.” Without another word, she turns on her heel and follows Reid to their room, where I can already hear the rustle of clothing and blankets as he prepares for bed.

My fingers curl around the bottle.

Perhaps I haven’t lied as adeptly as I thought.

Shaking my head, I follow her down the hall, turning left where she turned right and slipping into my own chamber. Farther down, Odessa’s room sits silent and empty; she insisted on finding Michal after securing the revenant—“To talk to him,” she said simply, refusing to provide further explanation. I try not to think about that conversation. I try not to think about anything at all.

The dull ache in my gums remains, as do the sharp cramps in my stomach. Perching on the edge of the bed, I study the bottle in my hand. The liquid within looks innocent enough: thin and clear, almost like water, with a faintly iridescent sheen in the candlelight. Thunder still rumbles in the distance, and I look reluctantly to the curtained window. The sun will not rise for another hour,and when it does, storm clouds will obscure its face. I roll the bottle between my fingers, limbs heavy.

This weather reminds me of Requiem. It reminds me of Michal, of Filippa and Frederic and the revenants, of everything I’ve tried so desperately to forget. And perhaps that makes me the worst sort of coward. Perhaps that makes me weak, immoral; perhaps that makes me porcelain.

Either way, I long to sleep.

Before I can reconsider, I tip the draught down my throat and close my eyes.

Diamond tights glitter on my legs as I twirl in the violet light of the ballroom. Lifting my gossamer skirt—also violet, as if sewn from clouds at dusk—I throw my head back in delighted laughter. Because the music in this ballroom is bright and lively. Because the costumes are beautiful and wanton, bizarre and terrible, some even grotesque. Because I’ve always wanted to be a ballerina, and thankgoodnessmy mother isn’t here to chastise me, to forbid me from wearing such a short, lovely hem.

Rising to my tiptoes, I execute a perfect pirouette.

“Spectacular, darling.” Beau flashes an indulgent smile as he spins past with Coco, whose magnificent wings trail angel dust in their wake. His own body gleams silver and translucent in this place—probably because the poor dear has died. I blow him a kiss anyway, and the two of them float through the air to waltz somewhere above our heads.

In the room beyond this one, an ebony clock ticks loudly. Its pendulum swings back and forth, forth and back, again and again until the edges of my vision begin to blur. Until my mind begins to drowse. I look away from it hastily toward a couple dancingnear—a very tall man with long and curling silver hair, a thin mustache, and powdered cheeks; in his arms, he holds a lovely young woman with a pert nose and golden ringlets. “Guinevere?” I blink at her in full color, atthem, as the man laughs merrily and I recognize his voice. His sharp teeth.

“We came to warn you,” D’Artagnan says, twirling Guinevere past in a flurry of glitter and rot. “Beware of your sister. She cannot be trusted.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “How do you know that? Is she here?” When he doesn’t answer, simply glides past with a serene smile, I catch his arm. “Well? Have you seen her, D’Artagnan? She looks like me, except older, and—and—”

“Perverse,” Guinevere finishes gleefully.

“Wrong,” D’Artagnan adds.

My fingers bite into his arm as the entire room tilts and the black-and-white checks of his doublet loom larger than life, leering at me like rows of teeth. “Did Frederic resurrect her? D’Artagnan! Is she”—I swallow hard—“is shealive?”

He laughs again, prying my fingers away one by one. His eyes seem to glow yellow in the violet light, and his pupils narrow to the slits of a cat as he tilts his head. “Do you consider yourself alive, papillon? Do you consider me?”

“Is shehere?” I repeat as the two resume their dance, spinning away from me. My eyes dart around the ballroom. “Is Frederic?”

Guinevere glances back at me, tossing her ringlets over one delicate shoulder. “Frederic is the least of our concerns now.”

Lou seizes my hands before I can answer, cackling maniacally and pulling me through the crowd toward our friends. Leaningforward, she whispers conspiratorially, “She said no, you know, when Beau proposed.”