Page 52

Chapter Forty-Nine

Spilled Tea

A large fire crackles in my room, where Lou, Coco, and I curl up in the squashy armchairs by the hearth, steaming cups of lemon tea in our hands. The clock on the mantel reads three o’clock in the morning. We changed out of our costumes immediately upon entering, and a knock followed shortly after. Ivan and Pasha stood in the corridor, scowling with the tray of tea before shoving it at us and explaining they’d be guarding our door tonight.

I stare numbly at the wall of books now. Rows upon rows of cracked spines. Beside me, Lou shares a seat with Coco, leaning her head upon her shoulder and sprawling her legs across the arm of their chair. The silver ribbon Michal gave me dangles loosely between my fingers as I read each title.

Adventures of Od, Bodrick, and Flem.

Briar and Bean.

Sister Wren.

Clearly the fairy-tale section. I almost laugh at the irony. Almost. Only hours ago, I thought vampires capable of living within the pages of one of these books, sailing to secret islets with baskets of roses and bottles of blood, but those bottles of blood must come from somewhere .

How very stupid I’ve been.

Michal’s swift execution of Yannick and the others led me to believe their deaths brought him little pleasure, but tonight—tonight he proved differently. Tonight he was calculated, cruel, borderline sadistic for the approval of his people. The thought brings sharp, unexpected pain until I focus again on the titles. On the faded golden letters. Anything to forget the memory of Michal’s scarlet-stained hand. Of Priscille’s earsplitting screams.

How Doth the Little Rose.

The Winter Queen and Her Palace.

My eyes linger on the last—an ivory, cloth-covered spine with peeling letters. I recognize this book. We owned a copy of it ourselves, and for years, it sat in a place of pride atop Filippa’s bedside table. She read it to me every night, the tale of the ice queen Frostine, who fell in love with a prince of summer. He would ride his sunlit carriage past her palace every year, melting the snow and ice, and she hated him fiercely for it—until one year, she found a stem of snowdrops placed upon her doorstep. Furious, she crushed the white petals beneath her boot. The next year, however, she found a whole carpet of them across her garden, and because she could not crush them all, she had no choice but to fall in love with the prince instead.

It was a ridiculous story.

Later, Filippa would tell me so herself. But what would she think of all this, I wonder? What would she do? Would she warn me to flee far and flee fast from Requiem and its darkness, or would she urge me to reconsider? She fell in love with the Necromancer, after all. Perhaps—to her—Juliet and the others would’ve deserved their fate. My fingers curl tighter around my cup as I search blindly for another section to read. Any other section to read. Horticulture, perhaps, or human anatomy—

“This is an... interesting room.” Lou follows my gaze to the bookshelf before turning in her chair, craning her neck to look up at the mezzanine. She tilts her cup to a portrait of a particularly severe-looking woman with withered skin and a wart on her nose. “That one looks an awful lot like my Crone form—or, I suppose, my great-grandmother’s Crone form. I haven’t posed for a portrait myself, but I’m almost positive those are the same chin hairs.” When I refuse to laugh, to muster any sort of reaction at all, she adds, “Legend claims she liked them so much that she commissioned thirty-seven portraits of herself as the Crone and strung them all throughout Chateau le Blanc. Thirty-six are still there. After she died, my grandmother shoved all of them into a single room, and I accidentally stumbled into it one night.” She feigns a shudder. “I had nightmares for a week .”

When I still don’t answer, Coco sighs and says, “They would’ve killed you, Célie.”

I stare hard at The Mythology of Plants . “I know.”

The three of us lapse into silence again—albeit a tense one—until Lou shakes her head in my periphery, setting her jaw in an obstinate line. “They did try to kill you, and if Michal hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have hesitated either.” She leans forward in her seat. “I might’ve chosen a different method, yes, but I would’ve killed them all the same.”

When I continue to stare at the bookshelf, unable to respond, she hooks her foot beneath the leg of my chair and spins me toward them. “Jean Luc wasn’t the only one mad with grief, you know,” she says. “When you never turned up at my house, we thought you’d been killed. We thought we’d find your body in the Doleur the next morning—floating right there with all the dead fish.”

Coco looks away swiftly, her eyes tight.

Glancing at her, Lou continues, “And then when we received your note—”

“How could you ask us not to come for you?” Coco asks in a low, strained voice. “How could you think we’d leave you here to die?”

I stare between their hurt expressions, stricken. “I never meant—I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.” Lou sighs and places her half-drunk cup of tea upon the table. “Look, we aren’t blaming you for what happened—truly, we aren’t—but do you really think so little of us?”

“Of course I don’t.” Leaning forward anxiously, I too place my cup upon the table, unable to articulate the incredulity rising in my chest. I—I need to fix this somehow. I need to explain . “Michal—he wanted to kill you, and I was just trying to—”

“Protect us?” Arching a brow, Lou cuts Coco a sideways glance. “That sounds vaguely familiar, doesn’t it?”

My chest tightens at the implication, and I lurch to my feet, striding past them toward the fireplace. When I reach it, however, I pivot on my heel and move toward the bookshelf instead. “That—that isn’t fair. Jean Luc treats me like I’m made of glass, and when I’m with him, I start to believe it too.”

“You’ve never been made of glass, Célie.” I can feel the intensity of Lou’s gaze on my back, and—unable to stand it—I turn to face her once more. “From what I can tell, you’ve befriended vampires and ghosts, infiltrated an enchanted brothel, and single-handedly exposed a necromancy plot since you came to Requiem. Before that, you incapacitated one of the most evil women alive, took oaths to become the first female Chasseur, and survived a horrific and impossibly violent abduction. Who cares if you cry on occasion? Who cares if you still have nightmares?” She shakes her head. “You may feel like a different person now, but that doesn’t mean you were ever less. It doesn’t mean you were ever weak.”

Coco nods vehemently, still clutching her cup to her chest. “We all do our best with the hands we’re dealt.”

A pause.

“Is different... bad?” I ask them quietly.

To my shock, they both regard me with something that looks like pride. It isn’t condescending, however, as I feared it might be. No, it’s pure, and it’s fierce. It’s—it’s real .

Grinning at whatever she sees in my expression, Lou pats the chair beside them once more. “Of course it isn’t bad. You’ve changed your cards, that’s all. You’re the one holding the deck now, and the rest of us need to fall into suit.”

“Speaking of suits ”—Coco’s mouth twitches into a smirk—“did you notice Reid’s tonight? It looked like it belonged to a giant.”

Lou cackles and sprawls across the seat once more. “At least it didn’t have bells . Just wait until Yule—I’m going to have an exact replica of Beau’s costume made and gift it to him in front of his mother. She’ll insist he try it on for us.”

Tentatively, I return to my seat, reaching for my cup of tea and inhaling deeply. Still warm. “Jean Luc will be fine, Célie,” Coco adds after another moment, as if returning to a conversation left unfinished. “I know it seems hopeless right now, but he’ll be fine. Regardless of what he says about a house with an orange tree, you didn’t steal his future. He still has his position, and even if you’d moved into that house with him, even if you’d squeezed those oranges, Saint-Cécile would’ve always been his home. He loves it there—and he should. He’s worked harder than anyone to change his own hand.”

“Don’t steal my metaphor,” Lou says.

That familiar longing fills my chest as I watch them together, as I think of that house with the orange tree. It would’ve been so easy, so perfect, if I’d fit with Jean Luc. I could’ve lived right there alongside Lou and Reid, Coco and Beau. Though she doesn’t know it, an enormous ruby will soon sparkle on Coco’s finger—because even though they’re different, even though their road together will be long and difficult, Coco and Beau love each other. They choose each other. “I can’t go back to Chasseur Tower,” I say softly. “I won’t.”

“We know.” Lou’s grin turns rather wistful as she hooks my chair again, pulling me closer—closer still—until our wooden legs bump together. “But you shouldn’t worry about that either. You opened the door for about a dozen new initiates to follow behind you—and all of them women, by the way.” Without warning, her hand shoots out and catches my wrist, pulling me into their chair and spilling tea across all of us. Cackling, she says, “One of them knocked Reid on his ass the other day in the training yard. It was glorious. I think her name is Brigitte.”

“It was the first time Jean Luc smiled since you’ve been gone,” Coco adds, happily dumping the rest of her tea in Lou’s lap. When I yelp and shift away, she happily dumps it on mine too. “He won’t be sad forever, Célie.”

“You won’t be sad forever either.” Lou glances at the silver ribbon still clutched in my free hand. If she notices that I’ve removed the emerald ribbon from my wrist, she doesn’t say. “That’s pretty.” She plucks at its tail. “Useful, too, if tonight is any indication.”

“We certainly aren’t in Cesarine anymore,” Coco says, her smile fading. “Though this place seems about as twisted as the castle. Last week, Beau swore the shadows in our bedchamber whispered to us, and the evening before, the entire southern hedge maze just... died. Every leaf withered to ash right in front of his little sister.”

“Melisandre has been acting odd too.” Lou heaves a forlorn sigh. “She won’t eat, and she hardly sleeps.”

“Cats are guardians of the dead,” I murmur. “They’ve been drawn to Requiem since the Necromancer’s first experiment.”

My gaze falls to the ribbon, and the tea on my nightgown abruptly feels colder than before. I haven’t seen Michal since... since the execution, and I don’t know what I’ll say to him when I do. What can I say? The violence I witnessed tonight—already, I know I can never unsee it. It’ll live in my memory for the rest of my life. “I don’t think I can stay here either.”

Lou’s gaze remains sure and steady as she takes the ribbon, brushing my hair to one side before carefully tying it around the heavy strands. “Why not?”

“Because this place —it—how can anyone live alongside such cruelty without it changing them?”

Lou and Coco share a long, inscrutable look. It’s a look I don’t understand, perhaps can’t understand, and more than anything else, it solidifies my decision. Because I never want to understand that look. I never want to know what it’s like to live in a world like this one—a world where blood is currency and only the strongest survive.

“I don’t know,” Lou says at last. “Only one person can answer that, I think, and I get the impression you don’t want to ask him. You’re welcome anytime in Cesarine, however. My house is always open.”

“As is the castle,” Coco says. “Beau and I would treat you like royalty.”

Unable to help herself, Lou’s eyes glitter with mischief. “But Chateau le Blanc is lovelier this time of year—”

“Have you visited Beau’s summer palace in Amandine? The entire place is covered in roses—”

I force a laugh before the two can seize my arms and engage in a full-blown match of tug-of-war. “I do have one question, though.” When they both turn to me, expectant, I ask, “How did you know sunlight harms vampires? And about compulsion? I never mentioned either in my note.”

“Oh.” Lou brightens, and with the flick of her wrist, the shutters on the windows of the mezzanine shudder slightly before bursting open. When a three-eyed crow swoops down from the eave, tap , tap , tapping on the window, Lou opens it with another flick. The bird soars into the room and lands on her outstretched hand. “Meet my little spy, Talon. As it turns out, he followed me to Brindelle Park on the night of your abduction, and he followed you onto that wretched ship. He wanted to help, I think.” She strokes his beak, and he closes his eyes in lazy appreciation. “A repulsive man by the name of Gaston locked him in a cage before he could fly back to me, however. When you freed him, he delivered more to us than just your note. Did you not know?” She eyes me curiously. “The three-eyed crow is a symbol of the le Blanc family line.”

Setting my empty cup aside, I yawn and join Lou in stroking the bird’s beak. “It’s nice to meet you, Talon. And—thank you.” Above his head, I meet Lou’s and Coco’s eyes too. “ All of you.”

The bird pecks at my fingers before flying up to perch on the chandelier.

“You should rest.” Coco also rises, gathering our cups and setting them on the mantel, stifling a yawn of her own. “If the Necromancer shows his face tonight, I will personally carve it to ribbons.”

Lou waves her hand, and the window shuts once more, the shutters snapping back into place. They lock with a series of comforting clicks. Then she leaps up and pulls a carpet bag from beneath her chair, extracting a supple piece of leather from within. With a wink, she hands it to me. “Just in case.”

“What... is it?”

“It’s a thigh sheath, Célie. Everyone should have one.”

Coco chuckles. “Here we go.”

“I refuse to apologize. Show me a person who looks less attractive in a thigh sheath, and we’ll talk.” Settling back into her chair, she motions toward the bed. “You two go on. Talon and I will keep first watch.”

Pulling the blankets over her head, Coco falls asleep almost immediately, but—despite my exhaustion—I lie awake for a long while. Long enough to watch Lou’s head eventually droop, to watch the book in her hand slide to the rug. Long enough to watch the fire in the hearth burn down to embers. Talon’s eyes, however, remain bright and sharp in the firelight.

They would’ve killed you, Célie.

I roll over to my side, restless and shivering. Each time I close my eyes, the image of Priscille’s face flashes through my subconscious, and the sound of her screams echoes as the vampires tear her limb from limb. Filippa’s locket presses into my throat as I turn again, burrowing deeper under the blankets. Trying to forget. Part of me wonders where the Necromancer is right this very moment, while another dreads ever leaving this room.

Dread.

That’s what this is.

Rolling toward the fireplace, I slip through the veil on pure instinct, and—just as I hoped—Mila sits in the chair opposite Lou. Though I say nothing, she seems to sense my presence; eyes unusually strained, grave, she looks at me and says, “Your friends are right, you know. The vampires wouldn’t have stopped until they killed you.”

Unwilling to wake Lou and Coco, I nod.

“Go to sleep, Célie.” With a mournful smile, Mila drifts to where Talon perches by the tea set. “You look like death.”

As if waiting for permission all along, I slip into fitful sleep.

That night, I dream of roses—dozens of them covered in frost, each petal slowly turning blue. My breath, too, condenses into little clouds of snow as I swing the picnic basket from my elbow, descending the stone steps to Michal’s bedroom. Inside the lovely wicker, ice creeps up the glass of two bottles. It paints their faces white, opaque, and crystallizes the scarlet liquid within. Plucking a rose from the basket, I tuck the dying flower into my hair.

I must look my best for the garden party.

A peculiar white light shines from the islet in the middle of the grotto, sparkling upon the dark water, the specks of mica in the cavern walls. At the sight of it, I feel a gentle tug behind my navel, and I cannot help but drift closer, each footstep leaving splintered ice upon the ground. Michal never mentioned witchlight in the fairy tale.

Perhaps he already waits for me there.

When something shifts behind me, I glance toward the bed in the center of the room. A pale figure twists and turns within it, his breathing short and fitful, as the muted emerald blanket tangles around his hips. I tilt my head, curious. Because I’ve never seen Michal sleep before. I never realized vampires could sleep, but of course, if they can breathe, if they can eat , it makes sense they can also dream. Ignoring the insistent pull in my stomach, I clutch the basket to my chest and creep closer—except the basket has vanished, and the roses, and the blood, leaving me to clutch at thin air instead. I stare down at my palms in confusion. Odd.

Michal soon fists the sheet in his hand, however, and rolls toward me with a muttered, “Célie.”

I startle at the sound—tearing my gaze from my own hands—to find him clenching his eyes shut as if in pain. Though the bite marks at his throat have healed, smoothing into perfect alabaster, his breath remains shallow. His body tense. As earlier, he wears no shirt, baring the whole of his chest, his shoulders, his back.

And he is beautiful.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at him, aching for him, yet here—in this strange dreamland—I can finally admit that I’ll never look enough. I’ll never drink my fill of this man, and part of me will always wonder. Part of me will always mourn.

Part of me will always miss him.

When I brush a lock of hair from his forehead, he shudders, and tiny crystals of ice appear where I touch his skin. Turning away, I sigh, and snowflakes drift upon the air. The pull in my stomach grows more insistent now, almost impatient, as I approach the shore once more. The light on the islet still sparkles innocently, and the longer I look at it, the brighter and brighter it glows. Indeed, a tendril of warmth seems to crack through the ice in the grotto, wrapping around my wrists and luring me closer— closer —until I float across the waves.

It takes several seconds to recognize the fluttering sensation in my chest, to hear the fervent pounding of my heart.

It smells like summer honey.

“Célie.” A panicked Mila shoots up from the water to block my path, her eyes wild and her hands lifted between us. “You need to wake up now.”

“Why?” Instead of gliding around her, I flow straight through her, my own eyes fixed eagerly upon the brilliant white light. Instinctively, I know it isn’t witchlight. No, this is something else, something comfortable and familiar—like returning home after a long journey—and I cannot fight this pull in my stomach. Helpless against it, I say breathlessly, “Mila, I think it might be—”

“No, it isn’t.” Mila tries and fails to seize my hand, to prevent me from going any farther. “No matter how it looks, how it feels , this isn’t your sister, Célie. This isn’t her.”

But I need to know. Whatever shines light upon that islet, I need to see it more than I’ve ever needed anything in my entire life. Without another word, I rush past her toward the rocky shore, and soon two glass coffins materialize within the brilliant halo of light. My mouth parts as we draw level with them. My vision narrows.

Because Mila is wrong.

One of the coffins stands empty, and one holds the half-disfigured corpse of Filippa.