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“You haven’t evenmether—”

“Don’t need to. Don’t want to.” She lifts her beaklike nose obstinately, and there, right on the tip, is the familiar wart of which Lou is so fond. The comparison rankles. This crotchety old woman with her erotica and spite does not deserve a granddaughter like Lou. “Not interested in acts of matricide either.”

“Says the woman who tried to drown Morgane in a toilet,” I say heatedly.

“That was different!”

“How, madame?”

We glare at each other for a long moment, fierce green eyes pitted against beady blue ones. Then— “I wasn’t supposed to get caught,” Mathilde mutters.

“You filthyhypocri—”

“Consider it a favor to me.” Michal hooks a finger under my bodice, shooting me a warning look as my teeth begin to lengthen without permission. I can still scent her blood, after all, and the smell of it is—I recoil abruptly with a spark of awareness. The smell of it is oddly...familiar. Even the sharp scent of the house and all its magic cannot quite disguise that underlying note of roses. Michal’s fingers wind tighter around my bodice strings. “Come now, Mathilde. There are not many people to whom I owe favors in this world.”

“No, it’s just the one for you, isn’t it?” Mathilde asks shrewdly,then cackles when Michal’s eyes narrow. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Did you not expect me to overhear your repartee with this little tart? Perhaps you shouldn’t shout it across the entire island, then, hmm? Word travels fast, mon roi”—her eyes glitter in triumph at his black expression—“or should I not call you that anymore? Imagine my shock at seeing such a very dead man strolling up to my cottage, arm in arm with the girl he died to protect. Seems to me that a quick note to the Old City would clear up any misunderstanding—”

I move instinctively, breaking away from Michal and debating how best to hurl Mathilde from the window. As if sensing the danger, Mathilde rises with unexpected agility, and something ancient stirs within her gaze. Something powerful. “Best check that temper, petal,” she says in a low voice, “unless you want me to lose mine.”

I touch my tongue to the tip of one fang. “Your nose is bleeding again.”

Her gnarled fingers curl.

Before either of us can make good on our threats, however, Michal steps directly between us. “I would think very carefully about how you proceed, Mathilde,” he says softly. “You make a powerful enemy, yes”—he tilts his head, eyes glittering as he studies her pale face—“but let us not pretend I’m the only one here who’d prefer their existence to remain secret.”

Though we both frown, Mathilde doesn’t seem confused by his cryptic warning. No, she glares at Michal with that same ancient power—shifting, assessing, tasting the truth in his words. It makes little sense, however; Mathilde lives on an island inhabited by creatures with preternatural senses. Surely she cannot hide fromthem completely, and especially not with broken magic. My teeth rescind as skepticism—and perhaps a touch of sheepishness—replaces that streak of protectiveness. Ididthink Michal died only hours ago. “Do the vampires not know about you, Mathilde?”

“Oh, they know a powerful witch lives on the far side of the isle,” Michal says. “They know to avoid her if possible. They do not, however, know who she truly is.Whatshe truly is,” he adds significantly.

“Whatshe is... meaning an ancestor of La Dame des Sorcières?”

“Among other things.”

It isn’t an answer, and everyone knows it. Before I can demand a real explanation, however, Mathilde harrumphs again, throwing herself upon the settee and settling into the pillows once more. “It seems we’ve reached an impasse, then, haven’t we?” Still, all traces of that ancient power vanish, replaced by a rather curmudgeonly expression, as she crosses her arms and adds, “I’ll keep your secret, but I’m still not interested in yourfavors.”

She says the last like a dirty word, and Michal exhales slowly as if praying for patience. “Everyone has a price, Mathilde. What do you want if not my favor or my house?”

Her lips purse, and she folds her gnarled hands across her ample bosom. Then, after a moment of consideration, she says, “I want my hatbox.”

If she expected a reaction to such a strange demand, she does not get it—not from Michal, anyway.I, however, blink at her in bewilderment, my brow furrowing as my confusion spirals higher. “Yourhatbox? Do you mean the hatbox you gave Odessa?”

“Gave?” Leaping to her feet again—grimacing at the movement—Mathilde thrusts a crooked finger toward the ceiling. “I wascoerced!Tricked! She might as well have applied thumbscrews—”

“Deal.” Without another word, Michal bites his palm and extends the fresh blood to Mathilde, who eyes it suspiciously. After another moment, however—in which still no one manages to explain—she sighs and extracts a silver knife from her pocket before slicing her own palm. My stomach contracts in macabre fascination as she slaps her palm against his. When she clicks her fingers irritably, the scent of magic blooms once more. Softer this time. Enduring. “A blood oath,” Michal says, steadying her when she staggers slightly. “Your hatbox in exchange for everything you know about the revenants—and how to defeat them.”

She seems unable to help herself. “And if I don’t know how to defeat them?”

“As one of said revenants is trapped inside your hatbox,” I say, “I certainly hope you do.”

Mathilde curses, and her magic pulses in response—once, twice—before erupting into an acrid cloud of incense and earth. Ofrot. Only then does she release Michal with a fierce scowl. “Have I mentioned how much I loathe vampires?”

Much like Mathilde’s cluttered cottage, her garden bursts with foliage of every size, shape, and color. There are Bluebeard blossoms here, yes, but also rhododendrons, azaleas, and climbing roses. Tree peonies. Mauve wisteria. They all form a sort of natural barrier against the rest of the woods, boxing in the vegetable patch—cabbage, carrots, and cauliflower, leeks and mushrooms, and a dozen others I cannot name—along with a small patio of paver stones. A petal-strewn pond full of lilies and frogs completes the would-be idyllic scene.

Would-bebecause, tragically, everything is dead.

Everything except the bear.

I try not to stare as it plods around the water’s edge, pointedly shuffling its back to us before dropping onto its belly and expelling a disgruntled sigh.