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Chapter Thirty-Three

A Brief Interview

“Pennelope!” I leap to my feet and curtsy, praying she hasn’t been standing there long. Judging by the amused gleam in her golden eyes, however, she heard every word between Michal and me. I wish the floor would rise up and swallow me whole. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Is it? It sounds as if I’m interrupting something.”

Beside me, Michal rises in stony silence.

“Not at all.” I smooth my gown in a self-conscious gesture, my limbs still trembling. Her own is much simpler with its crimson gauze, but much lovelier too—it floats down her hourglass figure like a cloud, glittering and sheer. Despite the claws of her paramour, the fabric remains wholly intact, probably spelled; the biting scent of blood magic wafts from it. I wipe away another tear. “We’ve been waiting for you, actually.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“You—you are?”

She waves a flippant hand. Unlike her cousin, she hasn’t attempted to cover her scars with cosmetics, leaving them bare to glow in the firelight. They wind up her fingers, her wrists, her arms with intention—as if she planned the exact location of each mark—before ending in a delicate filigree across her chest. “I might not be a creature of the night like your friend here”—she eyes Michal appreciatively—“but I still have ears. The two of you haven’t exactly been subtle. Not that it’s entirely your fault, of course,” she adds. “We always notice when night children come to call. Two more just arrived upstairs.”

Her tone holds no reprimand, merely keen interest. Though beautiful, her face is almost fey-like with its sharp eyes and pointed nose, and when she waggles her eyebrows mischievously, the impression only intensifies. “If you’d like to make an appointment, however,” she continues, “I’m afraid it’ll need to be for tomorrow night. Dear Jermaine is already waiting in my room, and he hates to share.”

I glance around us, looking for the staircase that leads to the courtesans’ chambers, but there isn’t one. No doorways either. Just rough black stone and crackling black fire. And shadows—disembodied shapes that writhe against the walls of the outer rim, unaffected by the firelight. I didn’t notice them before. Can’t imagine why , I think bitterly.

“We aren’t here to make an appointment,” Michal says, his tone imperious once more. “We’re here to ask about your cousin.”

“My cousin?” Instantly, the impish smile vanishes from Pennelope’s face, and the golden glow that surrounds her hardens to flinty silver. Her eyes narrow between the two of us. “Which cousin?”

“Babette Trousset.”

Her lips press flat.

“We want to give our condolences,” I start quickly, but Michal interrupts.

“Tell us about the days before her death.” Ignoring my scowl, he prowls around the settee to close the distance between them. If he means to intimidate, it doesn’t work; Pennelope refuses to cower at his approach. No, her golden eyes spark in silent challenge instead. Michal’s reputation as a creature of the night apparently means very little to her—which means she must know very little about him. Still, I resist the urge to step between the two. Only once have I seen the true wrath of a blood witch, and it isn’t an experience I’d like to repeat.

“Did she share anything that might’ve caused you unease?” Michal presses. “Perhaps introduced you to a new lover, or an old one?”

My scowl deepens. This sort of conversation requires delicate handling, and Michal is displaying as much finesse as a blunt axe. “Our apologies, mademoiselle,” I say before he can speak again. “We realize speaking about Babette must be difficult—”

Michal, however, interrupts once more, his voice growing colder with each word. “Perhaps she spoke of a business arrangement gone wrong, or a family member who needed help.”

At this, Pennelope’s expression twists, and I hasten to smooth the tension, skirting around the settee myself. I knit my fingers together to keep from wringing my hands. Or strangling Michal. “We’re investigating her death, so any information you can give us about her final days—any unusual behavior, any new faces—would be most helpful.”

“Would it?” Pennelope sneers around the question, and even I can tell the expression doesn’t belong on her cheerful face. “I’ll tell you the same as I told your brethren, Célie Tremblay: I didn’t know Babette even went to Cesarine, let alone who stole her body.”

I sigh in resignation. Of course she knows who I am. My chances of discovery climb steadily higher.

“The Chasseurs came to Les Abysses?” Michal asks sharply.

Pennelope scoffs. “They certainly tried—on a tip-off from your friends, I might add,” she snarls at me, “but you know Eponine. She saw the pricks coming, and everyone vacated the premises before they arrived. Everyone except me.” She lifts her chin with pride. With defiance. “I stayed, and I answered their questions because no one— no one —wants vengeance on the bastard who hurt Babette more than I do. She and Sylvie are like sisters to me, and I’ll gut anyone who ever harmed them.”

“Sylvie?”

Pennelope looks away quickly, cursing the slip under her breath. “Babette’s little sister.”

I frown at the revelation. “I didn’t know Babette had a sister.”

“Perhaps you don’t know Babette as well as you think you do.”

“Where can we find her?” A drunken melusine stumbles into Michal, who shunts him away without blinking. “Sylvie?”

A mixture of triumph and heartache creeps into Pennelope’s eyes. “You can’t. Sylvie died three months ago.” Before we can ask, she adds tersely, “Blood sickness.”

Oh.

I’ve heard of blood sickness only once before—it took the life of a little boy named Matthieu, whose death twisted his mother into one of the most evil creatures alive. She died in the Battle of Cesarine with her mistress, La Voisin, otherwise known as Coco’s aunt, who once ruled the Dames Rouges with an iron fist. “I’m so sorry, Pennelope,” I say quietly. “To have lost both of your cousins in such a short—”

But Pennelope jerks as if I’ve struck her. “We don’t need your pity .”

“Of course you don’t.” Frown deepening, I lift my hands in a placating gesture. Though my heart aches for her, we’ll need to take a more direct approach if Pennelope refuses to cooperate. I shudder to think of what Michal might do otherwise. “Is there somewhere more private we can talk? Somewhere more comfortable?” Nudging aside the pouf at my feet, I inspect the floor beneath it as surreptitiously as possible. Perhaps their chambers lie below, and pillows cleverly hide any door. Except—I bite back a groan of frustration. There are no doors here either. “Jermaine is in your bedchamber, but perhaps we can retire to Babette’s?” A careful pause. “Have you cleaned out her rooms yet?”

“That’s none of your business, pig.”

My brow furrows at the slur. Given the situation, an emotional outburst is perfectly understandable, but this one also feels... exaggerated, somehow. Overwrought. She didn’t seem to have a problem with Michal or me until we mentioned Babette, and she would’ve known my connection to the Chasseurs right away. “There’s no need for hostility, Pennelope. We’re just trying to help. If you could answer our—”

“I already told you everything there is to know.” She speaks with a sharp, cutting air of finality, her voice just shy of drawing blood. “Are we finished here? Jermaine likes waiting even less than sharing. Who knows what he might do if I leave him alone for much longer?” A forbidding smile. “And we all know how much Eponine abhors violence—blood never really lifts from the furniture, does it?”

“White vinegar does the trick.” Far from being deterred, Michal continues to study her, clasping his hands behind his back and refusing to move. Though casual, his body has gone completely still again. “I presume the huntsmen searched the premises during their interrogation?”

Pennelope scoffs as if unimpressed. “Of course they did.”

“All of it?”

“Everything.” She sweeps her arms to encompass the entire room, glaring directly into Michal’s eyes for emphasis. Almost too much emphasis. “They found nothing of interest. Now—this conversation is over, and I am leaving.” She charges toward the stairs but halts just before ascending. Her lip curls. “And Eponine will be hearing about this, nightwalker. I hope you like to swim.”