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Chapter Forty-Four

A Butterfly of Silver

My parents never wrapped presents for Filippa and me—that task always fell to Evangeline, who had the unfortunate habit of waiting until Christmas Eve to wrap a single gift. It drove my mother mad, but for me, it became a yearly tradition: when the clock struck midnight, I would wake Pippa, and together—usually pretending to be pirates—we would sneak into my father’s study to inspect the loot. I even cobbled together eye patches and a rather misshapen parrot to sit on her shoulder. She named him Fabienne and insisted on carrying him everywhere until my mother intervened, shrieking about filth and tossing him in the garbage. Filippa and I cried for a week.

Of course, as the years passed, Pippa grew more reluctant to pretend with me. Her smiles became less indulgent, disappearing altogether the year Evangeline left us. The next year, our new governess—a pinch-faced, sallow-skinned woman who loathed children—stowed our gifts in a locked closet outside her bedroom. When I still woke Pippa, determined to continue our game, she dragged the blanket over her head and turned over with a groan. “Go away, Célie.”

“But everyone is asleep!”

“As you should be,” she grumbled.

“Oh, come on , Pip. Father spied the most beautiful blue scarf at the market last week, and I want to see if he bought it for me. He said I look lovely in blue.”

She peeked open an eye to glare blearily at me. “You look horrible in blue.”

“Not as horrible as you.” I poked her ribs a bit harder than strictly necessary. “Now, are you coming? If it isn’t there, I’m going to purchase it as an early present to myself.” I beamed at her in the light of the candle between our beds. “Reid is coming over on Christmas morning this year, and I want to match his coat.”

She flung her blanket away then, eyes narrowing. “How are you going to purchase it? You haven’t any money.”

I shrugged, thoroughly unconcerned, and waltzed to our nursery door. “Father will give me some if I ask.”

“You do know where he gets his money, don’t you?” But I’d already slipped into the darkness of the corridor, forcing her to snatch the candle and hiss “ Célie—! ” before hurrying after me. “You’re going to get us both into trouble, you know.” She rubbed her arms against the chill. “And all for an ugly scarf. Why do you need to match Reid, anyway? Must he really wear his Chasseur uniform to add a Yule log to our fire?”

I turned to glare at her outside our governess’s room. “Why are you so determined to hate him?”

“I don’t hate him. I just think he’s ridiculous.”

Tugging the pins from my hair, I stooped to shove them into the lock on the closet door. “Well, what do you want for Christmas this year? A nice quill and sheaf of parchment? A bottle of ink? You’ve been writing an awful lot of letters—”

She crossed her arms tightly against her chest. “ That is none of your business.”

I struggled not to roll my eyes, twisting the pins deeper into the lock and blowing an errant strand of hair from my face. The book I’d read on lock-picking made it look much simpler than this—

“Oh, move over .” Shoving the candle at me, Pippa seized the pins and crouched level with the keyhole. With a few quick, precise twists of her fingers, the mechanism clicked, and she turned the handle with ease. The door swung open. “There.” She stood and gestured to the folded blue scarf on the middle shelf. “No need to grovel. You shall match your beloved huntsman on Christmas morning, and the world will continue to turn.”

I stared at her in wonder. “How did you do that?”

“Again, not your business.”

“But—”

“Célie, it isn’t a Herculean task to pick a lock. Anyone can do it with a bit of patience—which, I realize now, might actually be a struggle for you. Everything you’ve ever wanted has been handed to you on a silver platter.” I recoiled then, stung, my hand half outstretched toward my scarf, and Pippa slumped, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, ma belle. I shouldn’t have said that. I— I’ll teach you how to pick locks first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” I sniffed. “You clearly think very little of me.”

“No, no .” She seized my hand as it fell away from the scarf. “It’s just—all this.” Her eyes moved reluctantly to the closet, where satin hair bows and velvet jewelry boxes sat stacked in neat rows. Père had bought her a miniature model of the universe this year; its planets glittered slightly in the candlelight. “Our parents aren’t good people, Célie, and neither is—” She stopped abruptly, dropping my hand and looking away. “Well, they just bring out the very worst in me. That doesn’t mean I should take it out on you.”

My cheeks felt inexplicably warm as I tore my gaze away from her, as I motioned toward the piles of presents. Filippa might’ve thought me spoiled—perhaps even vapid—but at least I wasn’t determined to see the world half-empty. “I know our parents can be... difficult, Pip, but that doesn’t mean they’re all bad. These gifts—they’re the only way they know how to show us love.”

“And when the money runs out? How will they love us then?” Shaking her head, Pippa took the candle from me and turned, starting back up the corridor, and I understood her message loud and clear: conversation over . My chest fell slightly as I watched her go—until she glanced over her shoulder, surprising me, and said, “You can’t get something for nothing, Célie. Everything in this world comes with a price—even love.”

I had no way of knowing where she’d heard such an expression, then.

I only knew that it was true—because my sister had said it, and my sister would never lie to me.

I didn’t wear the blue scarf that Christmas morning, and Filippa threw her model of the universe into the same bin that our mother threw Fabienne.

“I have a gift for you.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Michal stands tall and strangely vulnerable in his bedchamber, his shirtsleeves rolled and his jacket discarded. I glance nervously at the small table beside him. Someone—presumably the foul-tempered servant who fetched me—has laden it with fruits, cheeses, meats, and pastries. My mouth waters instantly at what appears to be pain au chocolat, and reluctant, I descend the rest of the stairs against my better judgment. There aren’t any cabbage leaves in sight.

“You shouldn’t have—”

“Yes I should.” Clearing his throat, he pulls one of two chairs from the table and gestures for me to sit. “And this isn’t the gift. This is food , which you should’ve been receiving since you arrived on Requiem.”

I sink into the seat, reflexively folding the napkin into my lap before reaching for the nearest platter—eggs with wild mushrooms and salty cheese. If Michal wants something from me, I need to be clever enough to recognize it. That means food. My stomach groans in agreement. “A scullery woman brought food occasionally. And Dimitri,” I add as an afterthought. “A lovely meal of cabbage, butter, and hard-boiled eggs.”

“Cabbage and butter,” Michal repeats.

Nodding, I nearly moan at the first bite, and his eyes flick to the half-healed wound on my throat. Abruptly, he sits in the chair opposite me. “Odessa said you spoke with him.”

“Good news does travel fast.”

“Am I correct in assuming you believed his story? You think him innocent?”

I snatch a crepe from the top of a teetering stack. “I would hardly call him innocent , but yes, I no longer think Dimitri is the Necromancer.”

Though my chest tightens with the admission, I refuse to acknowledge it, focusing instead on the magnificent spread of food before me, adding several slices of apple and fromage blanc to my plate. Michal tracks each movement with sharp interest. Too sharp. I know what he’s thinking, of course. Without Dimitri as a suspect, we have only two persons of interest left to investigate: Coco and now Filippa. With the masquerade tomorrow night, Coco would certainly be the easiest bread trail to follow, yet if Coco Monvoisin knew anything about the Necromancer— especially after his grooming of Babette—he would already be dead.

Filippa’s cross continues to tighten around my neck.

I spoon an enormous bite of strawberry jam into my mouth anyway, delaying the inevitable. Then, swallowing hard— “We should return to Les Abysses.”

Michal pushes a loaf of brioche across the table before pouring coffee into a crystal goblet. This too he slides casually toward me. “Babette has gone to ground, most likely with the Necromancer himself. No one has seen or heard from her since she fled.”

“But Pennelope—”

“—has vanished with the whole of Eden. The building now stands empty and abandoned, swept of everything but dust.” A pause as he watches me inhale the coffee. “I knew Eponine wouldn’t linger after our unfortunate encounter with Babette. Despite her threats, she fears vampires too much to risk my wrath—or that of the Necromancer. I’m sure he wasn’t pleased with the proceedings either.”

“Oh.” I nod with a horrible sinking sensation and try not to grimace. The coffee tastes abruptly bitter in my mouth. “That—that is rather unfortunate.”

“Indeed.”

We lapse into silence except for the sound of my fork against the plate. It grows harsher with each passing moment—louder, grating —until I can no longer pretend to poke at my eggs in good conscience. “Finished?” Michal asks softly.

I nod without speaking, without looking at him either, and instead stare out at the mica-flecked walls of his grotto. The tide must have retreated at some point during the night; a stone islet now sparkles in the center of the cavern, too small and too distant to see properly. “It’s only visible during low tide,” Michal murmurs, following my gaze. “Mila would always drag Dimitri, Odessa, and me out there for garden parties on special occasions—she’d pick bouquets of flowers and bring bottles of blood spiked with champagne. She insisted Dimitri and I wear lace cuffs.”

I can hear the smile in his voice just as clearly as I can envision the scene in his memory: a quartet of ethereal vampires rowing out to sea by moonlight, each carrying a basket of roses and a bottle of blood. “That sounds... lovely,” I say at last. And it’s true. A vampire garden party sounds like a page torn straight from a fairy tale, and I—I don’t know what that says about me.

I need to tell him about Filippa’s note.

I need to tell him about the matching handwriting, need to form some sort of plan in case the Necromancer strikes again. Twisting my napkin in my lap, taking a deep breath, I say, “Michal—”

“Come here.”

Startled, I look up to find Michal no longer sitting at the table at all, but standing still and silent beside his bed. Atop the coverlet rests an inky black garment box tied with an emerald bow. Golden letters stamped across the front wink BOUTIQUE DE VêTEMENTS DE M. MARC in the candlelight. I rise tentatively to my feet. “Is that my costume for All Hallows’ Eve?”

“Monsieur Marc delivered it about an hour ago, along with his regards.” He clears his throat again, and unless I’m much mistaken, he seems almost... nervous now. But that can’t be right; this is Michal, and if the king of the vampires has ever felt even a twinge of uncertainty, I’ll marry Guinevere. “I requested a handful of alterations to the original gown,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I... hope you like them.”

Curiosity piqued despite myself, I stride forward and pluck at the emerald ribbon. “What was wrong with the original gown? You don’t like butterflies?”

“On the contrary.”

“Then what did you—?” The answer, however, renders me momentarily mute as I lift the lid from the box and brush aside black tissue paper. “Oh my God,” I whisper.

Instead of the emerald swallowtail gown as promised, Monsieur Marc has sewn a gown of bright, resplendent silver. Even folded within the box, the gossamer seems to ebb and flow like water, and when I pick it up—incredulous, awestruck—the skirt spills forth to reveal thousands of intricate diamonds sewn into each pleat. My heart climbs into my throat. Those diamonds will catch the light of every candle in the ballroom when I walk, and the train —cathedral length, at least, and divided in half to resemble two butterfly wings that attach at the wrist to sheer sleeves.

A capelet of diamonds—larger than those on the skirt but equally flawless—completes the ensemble.

It takes several attempts to form speech. “I can’t— This is the most— How did he—?”

Watching me splutter, Michal’s face relaxes slightly, and the corners of his mouth pull into a smile. “Un papillon.” From his pocket, he extracts a silk handkerchief and carefully moves the capelet aside to reveal a half mask embroidered with delicate organza wings. He takes care not to touch anything with his bare skin. “Though I think I might’ve stretched the definition when I asked Monsieur Marc to create one from metal.”

My hands slide longingly over the fabric as I tuck it back inside the box. I can’t accept such a gift. Of course I can’t. The words that leave my mouth, however, are quite different. “He sewed this with real silver? How? ”

Michal shrugs, his smile stretching wider, and my hands fumble a bit with the lid of the box in response. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him smile before—at least, not like this. Openly. Artlessly. It softens his entire face, smoothing his cruel features into something almost human... and making him, impossibly, more beautiful because of it. “ He would tell you that he spun straw into gold. Really, though, he owed me a favor, and he likes you enough to don gloves.”

When he hands me the emerald ribbon, his fingers inadvertently brush my palm. They linger there for another second. Two. Then he slowly, deliberately, traces the lines there, and gooseflesh erupts down my legs. His voice turns wry. “He also requests a dance tomorrow night.”

I raise my brows. “ Does he?”

“It would be rude to refuse, I think.”

“It would be ruder to my poor toes to accept without first asking how he dances.”

His fingers continue to trail up, up, up. My breath hitches almost painfully as they skim over the thin skin of my wrist, sliding under the battered ribbon there. “Not half as well as Reid Diggory.” His eyes glitter as I try and fail to ignore the tingling sensation in my arm. “He isn’t half as tall either. Though I must say, pet—after seeing him—I think you’re mistaken in your impression of Monsieur Diggory.”

“You think you’re taller?”

“I know I’m taller.” His fingers creep beneath my sleeve, gathering it up my forearm until he reaches the soft crook of my elbow. He cradles it in his hand. “And... a much better dancer.”

When his thumb presses down on a vein, heat bolts through my core, and this—this shouldn’t be happening. He’s barely even touching me. Voice shaking, I manage, “You—you cannot know that from simply seeing him.”

“Nor can you—not unless you dance with me too.”

The barest hint of fang flashes in his smile now. It doesn’t frighten me anymore, however. Not after the attic. Especially after the attic. My wrist and throat seem to pulse like living things at the memory—aching not with pain but something else. Something sharp and needy. “I—” Need to get my head on straight. Need to leave this room before I do something truly stupid. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Michal.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” I stare at him breathlessly. How do I answer such a question without completely humiliating myself? Because I can’t think when you look at me like that? Because I’m a fool for looking back? Because it’s too soon, and because my friends are coming, and because— my friends . The realization pierces my lungs like a knife. “Are you still planning to punish Coco for the Necromancer and Babette? I hardly think we’ll have time for dancing if so.”

His hand falls away from my elbow. His smile fades with it, returning him instantly to the cool and collected Michal I’ve always known. My muscles go weak with relief. I’ve witnessed his wrath, his grace, his power , and I’ve survived them all, but his charm? I don’t think anyone can survive that.

“You have my word, Célie Fleur Tremblay,” he says, punctuating the words with a simple bow, “that no vampire will harm your friends when they arrive tomorrow, including myself. If I thought it would help, I would cancel the masquerade altogether, but they’ll come for you regardless. I doubt Hell itself could keep Louise le Blanc away from Requiem now”—a vicious flash of his eyes—“but Hell is exactly what she’ll find if she attempts to take you by force.”

Despite his threat, my heart seems to swell to twice its size. He isn’t going to hurt them. Just as quickly, however, it punctures once more—because if Coco and Lou and Reid are coming to Requiem, Jean Luc will be coming too. Despite his last words, he won’t miss the opportunity to investigate an isle of vampires. I wipe my palms on my skirt as inconspicuously as possible.

I can only hope he and Michal won’t kill each other.

“Célie?” the latter asks.

“Lou would never do that.”

He nods curtly. “Good. That makes this easier.” Before I can even ask, he says, “I need you to do something for me, but if you agree, you’ll be putting yourself in danger.”

Filippa’s words slash through the last of my euphoria. You can’t get something for nothing, Célie. Of course Michal wants something in exchange for the food, the magnificent dress. Everything in this world comes with a price.

My eyes narrow at him. “What sort of danger?”

“The sort that involves the Necromancer.”

“Oh.” The first cold finger of understanding trails down my spine as we stare at each other. All the warmth in his expression has frozen solid once more, and his eyes glint like chips of black ice. “Is that all?”

“Your friends aren’t the only ones who’ll arrive when the enchantment lifts on All Hallows’ Eve. The Necromancer won’t be able to resist the temptation—if you choose to remain on Requiem, this could be his only opportunity to reach you until Yule. He won’t want to take that risk.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I wouldn’t.” He steps backward, away from me, and returns to the breakfast table, uncovering the only dish I didn’t touch. Revealing a single goblet of blood. He drains half of it in one swallow, and I watch—torn between disgust and fascination—as his throat works and his hand clenches around the crystal. Part of me wonders what it tastes like to a vampire. Part of me loathes myself for wondering. “The Necromancer is so desperate for your blood,” he says after another moment, “that he slaughtered at least six creatures in search of it—and one of them right outside Chasseur Tower. He didn’t bother to hide the bodies of his victims, which tells me he is either foolish or fearless. We must assume it’s the latter. He isn’t going to wait another two months to seize his prize.”

With a gentle clink , he returns the goblet to its gilded tray. He does not, however, approach me again.

“You want to use me as bait,” I say finally.

Under different circumstances, it might’ve hurt more, but this is too important. If the Necromancer succeeds, not only will I die , but he’ll also tear through the veil between the living and the dead. Who knows what consequences will follow? What if—once torn—the veil remains open permanently?

Michal inclines his head. “I understand if you’re frightened, but—”

“It would be rather stupid not to be, wouldn’t it? The man wants to harvest my blood to raise the dead—and he’ll still attempt to do so whether I’m waltzing as a butterfly or cowering in my room.” I pick up the garment box, clutch it to my chest like some sort of shield, or perhaps just something to do with my hands. Tomorrow suddenly looms very near. “Either way, I’ll be in danger, so when he takes advantage of the lifted enchantment, we should too. We should be ready.”

Michal says nothing for a long moment, instead simply staring at me. Then—his jaw flexing— “I won’t allow anything to happen to you, Célie.”

“Neither will I.”

The words startle even me, and instinctively, I clutch the box tighter in response. But they’re true—I will not go quietly when the Necromancer arrives, and if he thinks he can take me without a fight, it’ll be the last mistake he ever makes. I am not a doll. I am a Bride of Death, and I will use every weapon in my arsenal against him. Every secret.

You can’t get something for nothing, Célie.

If I want to defeat the Necromancer, I’ll need Michal’s help too.

“Michal”—I march toward him with newfound purpose—“there’s something else you should know. I found a note inside my sister’s cross from a secret lover. The two planned to elope, but Morgane killed her before they could do it.” Pressing the garment box to his chest, I fish the cross from my collar and reveal the scrap of parchment within. A crease appears between Michal’s brows as I unfold it, and he skims the words quickly. “The handwriting matches the letter Dimitri received from the Necromancer.”

His eyes snap to mine. “You think he was her secret lover.”

“Yes.”

He looses a harsh, incredulous breath. “But that means—”

“I know.” Folding the note into the cross once more, I tuck both safely away and reclaim the garment box from Michal’s rigid arms. We can do nothing now but wait. “The Necromancer plans to kill me to resurrect my sister.”