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Above it all wafts the scent of rot and roses.

Michal and I sit with a grudging Mathilde at a rusted iron table beneath a willow tree. The fronds, brittle and black, rustle gently overhead as she calls for café. “Er—” I glance toward her cottage uncertainly. “Do you employ a cook, madame? I didn’t see anyone when we—”

“—searched my home?” Mathilde drums her gnarled fingers against the tabletop. “Nosy chit. And I’m not your madame.”

Right.

I clench my teeth in a smile, determined to get through this conversation without feeding myself to the bear. “Shall we get right to it, then? Can you tell us about the revenants?”

“I’ve just rung for café,” she says irritably.

“Yes, I know that, but as we’ve established, there are no attendants in the house—”

“Who established that? Never put words in my mouth, you silly girl. OfcourseI have attendants—just becauseyoucouldn’t see or hear them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She exhales hard through her nose. “Who do you think I am?”

The back door opens before I can answer—and Ireallywant to answer—but my mouth snaps shut at the sight of a tea cart clambering over the threshold of its own accord. Atop it, a carafe and four mismatched bowls bounce haphazardly with a pot of sugar and a pitcher of milk. The latter two slosh their contents withreckless abandon, leaving a trail of confectionary in the cart’s wake. Mathilde harrumphs at them before clicking her fingers, and a mop lurches through the door next. It drops with a clatter halfway across the pavers. Though Mathilde snaps her fingers at it again—once, twice, three times—it refuses to move, and she scowls at the fresh trickle of blood from her nose.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she snaps when my eyes instinctively follow its path. At her tone, I lift my hands in a placating gesture. Because Mathilde and her magic are none of my concern. We’re here to learn about revenants—and somehow, she seems to be the sole authority—which means I should bite my tongue; I should not pry.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been adept at either one of those things.

“Doesn’t ithurt?” Unable to help myself, I gesture incredulously from her nose to the mop to the cart of café that shudders to a feeble halt a foot away. The carafe seems to groan. “Magic has clearly broken—just listen to thatpot—so why continue to use it when it affects you like this?”

Mathilde stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Because I’m a witch.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop complicating things, petal,” she advises. “I am a witch. For better or worse, magic is part of me. I can no more ignore it than a loup garou can resist the pull of the moon.” She snorts derisively before pulling the cart toward her. “But what am I saying? That answer won’t mean much to the likes ofyou.”

I blink at her, loath to admit she’s right, and it means very little. “Because I’m not a witch?”

“Because you’re a vampire who still thinks she’s human.” Her beady eyes flash to Michal as I stiffen, and her lips twist in swift disapproval. “And there’s nothing more dangerous than pretending to be something you’re not. Isn’t that right, leech?”

Instead of answering, he surveys the garden with his signature indifference. I know her words still hit their mark, however, because something shifts behind his gaze. Something hardens, his impenetrable mask sliding back into place. And Ihateit. That difference in him—though subtle—touches my nape like a block of ice, and I resist the urge to shiver. When I press my foot upon his under the table, urging him to look at me, he flicks an arch glance in my direction and lifts a brow.

“Café would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” I ask, pretending Mathilde is being a gracious host instead of goading us.

He makes no such effort. “We take blood in our café,” he tells her coolly. “Are you offering?”

Mathilde’s withered face splits into a smile, and she leans forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “Would you drink it if so? I’ve heard quite the vicious rumor to the contrary, but one never knows. It must be very thirsty business having your heart ripped out.”

And she calledmea nosy chit.

Michal leans back in his seat, his expression shrewd. “You’ve spoken to Mila.”

“She might pop in occasionally.”

Still cackling, Mathilde seizes a chipped plate piled high with buttery-soft croissants. If possible, my confusion deepens—at my body’s memory of eating croissants, yes, and the bizarre pang of hunger that follows, but also at the abrupt turn in conversation. “How canyoutalk to Mila?” I ask her.

She narrows her eyes at my tone, before seizing a bowl and filling it to the brim with steaming black coffee. Hunching over it, she says, “Because I’m a Bride of Death.”

“What?”

“Did you think you were the only one?” She takes a haughty sip. “Young people. So self-important.”

“I—” My incredulous gaze shifts to Michal, who gives away nothing as Mathilde plucks a croissant from the cart. She pushes it into my elbow next, a bit harder than necessary, but I ignore her, pressing harder on Michal’s foot. “Did you know about this?”

“Not until after your arrival.”