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Squaring my shoulders, straightening my spine, I dare him to argue. Because he isn’t the only one growing steadily agitated; just the sight of him—his shoulders blocking the door, his eyes narrowed, and his hand still clenched upon the frame—sets my teeth on edge.

I hate being this aware of him. I hate being this aware ofmyselfwhenever he’s near.

He apparently feels the same.

Patience snapping at last, he releases the doorframe and steps aside, gesturing Odessa into the corridor beyond with a curt swipe of his arm. “Go. The longer you delay your reunion, the harder it will be.”

My eyes widen at his tactlessness. “But she doesn’t want—”

“I know she doesn’t,” he says, his voice clipped, “but what wewant and what we need aren’t always the same things. Odessa”—he captures her gaze and holds it—“I haven’t had the chance to speak with him at length, but he seems different now. He seems... better.”

Her brow furrows. “Better?”

Michal nods. “Like before.”

Odessa’s expression empties at that—as if Michal’s words have triggered some sort of defense mechanism—and she lifts her gaze to the paneled ceiling, where Dimitri hovers above deck. Where he waits. Instinctively, I realize Michal is offering Odessa the chance to speak with her brother first, to pass her own judgment before Michal and I enter the conversation. To passthejudgment.

I frown between them, unsure how I feel about that.

Dimitri snapped her neck, yes, but she didn’t die. Not like I did. Still, it feels selfish—heartless, even—to point out such a thing when Odessa so clearly needs to work through his betrayal. Dimitri is her twin. No matter what he does, he will always be her twin; she will always love him, and...

How very difficult that must be.

At last, Odessa looses a slow and steady breath before nodding. “I’ll speak with him.”

Sensing her nerves, I snatch up the basket of kittens and thrust it into her arms. “Just in case you need some, er... armor.”

She stares down at them without reacting for several awkward seconds. “They’re kittens, Célie.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Right. I— You’re right, of course.” When I try to take them back, however, her fingers tighten on the basket, and she refuses to let it go. I drop my hands at once. Without a word of explanation, she lifts her chin, straightensher shoulders, and stalks across the room to do battle—but not before throwing a quick, appreciative look over her shoulder at me. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

Michal closes the door behind her with an ominous click.

A jittery shiver erupts across my skin at the sound, and I descend into her chair with as much poise as I can muster. “What happened to the man with the revenants? Did he survive the attack?”

Michal doesn’t answer right away. Instead he shakes his head as if disgusted and stalks forward. “No,” he says at last.

My heart contracts painfully at such a simple, devastating word. “And the revenants?”

“Pulled apart and tossed to sea.”

I remember the Archbishop with his corpse cleaved in two, each half still trying to slaughter us. “I don’t know where the woman went, but hopefully she’ll have time to gather her children and flee before the revenants find her again.” I glance up, hoping he’ll reassure me, but his expression remains scathing. A fresh pang of hunger shoots through me as our eyes meet. “Because they’ll piece themselves back together and go after her, won’t they? Coco said revenants rise from the grave with the sole purpose of terrorizing the living.”

They also somehow recognizedme, but it feels counterproductive to bring that to Michal’s attention.

Still, he seems to sense my reticence, and the silence in the ballroom deepens until I can practically feel his anger burning my skin. At last, unable to stand it, I open my mouth to say something else—to ask about Brigitte and Jean Luc, perhaps how they found him—but he shakes his head, the warning in his voice clear. “Who was the man, Célie?” he repeats.

And here we are.

Swallowing hard, I knot my fingers in my lap and inspect my knuckles.Just tell him.The impulse to lie wages war against my better judgment, and I unclench my hands abruptly, tugging on a frayed thread at the sleeve of his cloak instead.Just tell him, and he can help you. Hewantsto help you.It makes little sense to keep Death a secret, yet a seed of unease still cracks open in my chest as Michal draws to a halt in front of the desk—because Michal will help me, yes, but as before, he might also hurt my sister.

No. Hewillhurt my sister.

If he learns Filippa might be a threat—that she made some sort of deal with Death—he won’t hesitate to send her back to the grave.As he should, says that nasty voice of reason.As you should.But it isn’t that simple either. Something more lingers in the shadows of my mind, half-formed and impossible to grasp. It compels me to stay silent.

Leaning forward, Michal plants his palms wide against the wood on either side of me. “Well?”

We stare at each other for a split second. Then— “He didn’t tell me his name,” I say quietly, inching back in my seat and holding my breath. “But I think he—I think he stepped through the veil after Frederic tore it open. He said something about a—a permanent hole this time. A door.”