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Chapter Five

Crimson Roses

I wait longer than strictly necessary before creeping into the hall, praying the others remain in the yard. I don’t want to see them. Indeed, in this moment, I never want to see another blue coat or Balisarda again.

I’m not sulking, of course.

Jean Luc can keep his filthy secrets. Apparently, it doesn’t matter what I’ve done for this kingdom or what I’ve sacrificed ; it doesn’t matter what he spouts in the training yard. Apparently, those are just words—no, placations for me and for Frederic and for our dear captain himself. I am pretty porcelain, after all. I might shatter at the slightest touch. Brushing furious tears from my cheeks, I storm upstairs, tearing off my ugly coat, my sodden skirt, and flinging both to the corner of my room. Part of me hopes they’ll rot there. Part of me hopes they’ll putrefy and crumble, so I might never wear them again.

Does it not feel like you’re playing dress-up?

My hands curl into fists.

I stopped playing dress-up at fifteen years old—entirely too old, as far as Filippa was concerned. She told me as much the first night I caught her sneaking from our nursery. I’d fallen asleep in my tiara—a book about the ice princess Frostine still sprawled across my chest—when her footsteps woke me. I’ll never forget the look of scorn on her face, the way she scoffed at my petal-pink nightgown. “Aren’t you a little old for pretend?” she asked me.

It was not the last time I cried over my sister.

Silly little Célie.

I stand in my room for another moment—breathing heavily, my chemise dripping—before heaving a sigh and stalking after my uniform. With cold, clumsy fingers, I hang the blue wool by the mantel to dry. Already, a servant has stoked the dying embers of last night’s fire, probably at Jean Luc’s request. He heard my screams last night. He hears them every night. Though Tower rules prevent him from coming to me, from comforting me, he does what he can. Fresh candles arrive at my door twice a week, and flames always roar in my hearth.

I drop my forehead to the mantel, swallowing another hot wave of tears. The emerald ribbon around my wrist—a talisman, of sorts—has nearly come undone from my spat with Frederic, and one tail of the bow trails longer than the other, the pretty loops now limp and pitiful. Just like me. Clenching my teeth, I carefully retie the silk and choose a snow-white gown from the armoire, heedless of the gale outside. By the door, I pluck a bottle-green cloak from its hook and swing the heavy velvet around my shoulders.

Jean Luc is busy.

And I am going to visit my sister.

Father Achille intercepts me in the foyer before I can escape. Striding from the sanctuary—presumably on his way to speak with Jean Luc—he hesitates, frowning, when he sees the look on my face. In his hand, he clutches a small book. “Is something wrong, Célie?”

“Not at all, Your Eminence.” Forcing a bright smile—acutely aware of my swollen eyes and red nose—I study the book as discreetly as possible, but I can’t discern the faded letters on its cover. It certainly looks the same size as the book in Jean Luc’s pocket last night. Everything from its yellowed, loose-leaf pages to its battered, leather-covered spine feels ominous, however. And is that dark stain... blood ? When I look closer—nearly squinting now, throwing caution to the wind—he clears his throat and shifts pointedly, hiding the book behind his back. I smile harder. “Apologies for my attire. The rain soaked my uniform while I trained with Frederic this morning.”

“Ah. Yes.” He shifts again, clearly uncomfortable with the silence that falls between us. As a rather surly, cantankerous old man, Father Achille would rather fall on his Balisarda than address my tears, yet—to the surprise of both of us, I’m sure—he doesn’t leave, instead scratching awkwardly at his grizzled beard. Perhaps his newfound position as the Archbishop still hasn’t hardened him as it did his predecessor. I hope it never does. “Yes, I heard about Frederic. Are you all right?”

My smile becomes a grimace. “Did Jean Luc not mention that I bested him?”

“Oh?” He clears his throat and keeps scratching, averting his dark eyes to his boots, to the window, to anything and everything except my face. “That part—er, no, it didn’t come up, I’m afraid.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes I wonder why God commands us never to lie.

“Right.” I lift my fist to my heart, inclining my neck and inching past him. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Célie, wait.” He waves me back with a beleaguered sigh. “I have no talent for this, but—well, if you ever need an ear that doesn’t belong to your fiancé, I can still hear a little.” He hesitates for another painful second—still scratch, scratch, scratching —and I pray for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I suddenly don’t want to address my tears either. I just want to leave . When he meets my gaze a second time, however, his hand falls, and he nods with resignation. “I was a lot like you once. I didn’t know where I fit in here. Didn’t know if I could fit in here.”

I frown at him, startled. “But you’re the Archbishop of Belterra.”

“I wasn’t always.” He ushers me toward the grand entrance of Saint-Cécile, and inexplicable affection for him blooms in my chest as he hesitates, unwilling to leave me just yet. Though the rain has stopped, a fine sheen of moisture still douses the steps, the leaves, the cobblestone street below. “You can’t live for one moment, Célie.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you stabbed that injection into Morgane le Blanc—the strongest and cruelest witch this kingdom has ever known—you did a great thing for Belterra. An admirable thing. But you’re more than great and admirable. You’re more than that moment. Don’t let it define you, and don’t let it dictate your future.”

My frown deepens, and instinctively, I slip a hand inside my cloak to toy with the emerald ribbon at my wrist. The ends have begun to fray. “I—I’m afraid I still don’t understand. I’ve chosen my future, Your Eminence. I am a Chasseur.”

“Hmm.” He wraps his robes tighter around his gaunt frame, scowling at the sky in displeasure. His knees ache when it rains. “And is that what you really want? To be a Chasseur?”

“Of course it is. I—I want to serve, to protect, to help make the kingdom a better place. I took a vow —”

“Not every choice is a forever one.”

“What are you saying?” I take an incredulous step away from him. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be here? That I don’t fit ?”

He harrumphs and turns back toward the doors, abruptly disgruntled once more. “I’m saying you fit if you want to fit, but if you don’t want to fit, well—don’t let us steal your future.” He glances over his shoulder, limping back into the foyer to escape the chill. “You aren’t a fool. Your happiness matters just as much as Jean Luc’s.”

I expel a harsh breath.

“Oh, and”—he waves a gnarled hand, heedless—“if you’re going to the cemetery, stop at le fleuriste first. Helene put together fresh bouquets for the graves of the fallen. Take one to Filippa too.”

Dark crimson roses spill from my cart as I arrive at the cemetery beyond Saint-Cécile. An enormous wrought iron gate encircles the property, its black spires piercing heavy clouds. The gates part wide this afternoon, but the effect is far from welcoming. No. It feels like walking into teeth.

A familiar chill sweeps my spine as I coax my horse along the cobblestone path.

When Cosette Monvoisin’s Hellfire destroyed the old cemetery last year—and the catacombs of the privileged and wealthy below—the aristocracy had no choice but to erect new headstones for their loved ones here. That included Filippa. Despite my father’s vehement protests—imagine, his daughter forced to lie beside peasants for eternity—our ancestral tomb burned with all the rest. “She isn’t really here,” I reminded my mother, who wept for days. “Her soul is gone.”

And now, so is her body.

Still, this new land—though hallowed by Florin Cardinal Clément himself—it feels angry .

It feels... hungry.

“Shhh.” I lean forward to comfort my horse, Cabot, who snorts and tosses his great head in agitation. He hates coming here. I hate bringing him. If not for Filippa, I would never step foot among the dead again. “We’re almost there.”

Near the back of the cemetery, rows upon eerie rows of headstones rise from the earth like fingers. They grasp at my horse’s hooves, my cart’s wheels, as I swing from the saddle and walk alongside Cabot, placing a bouquet of roses atop each. One grave—and one bouquet—for each person who fell during the Battle of Cesarine. At Father Achille’s command, we bring fresh flowers each week. To honor them, he says, but I can’t help but feel the real reason is to pacify them.

It’s a silly notion, of course. Like Filippa, these people are no longer here , and yet...

That chill creeps down my spine again.

Like I’m being watched.

“ Mariée ...”

The word, spoken so softly I might’ve imagined it, drifts with the wind, and I lurch to a halt, whipping my head around wildly with a sickening sense of déjà vu. Please, God, no . Not again .

I’ve heard that word before.

Shuddering, I quicken my step and ignore the sudden pressure in my temples. Because I did imagine it—of course I did—and this is precisely why I avoid cemeteries. These voices in my head aren’t real. They’ve never been real, and my mind is playing tricks on me again, just like in Filippa’s casket. The voices weren’t real then either.

They aren’t real.

I repeat the words until I almost believe them, counting each bouquet until I almost forget.

When I finally reach Pippa’s grave, I crouch beside it and rest my cheek against the elaborate stone. It feels just as cold as the rest of them, however. Just as damp. Already, moss has crept along its arched edges, obscuring the simple words there: Filippa Allouette Tremblay, beloved daughter and sister. I peel the moss away to trace the letters of her name over and over again—because she was so much more than beloved, and now we speak of her in past tense. Now she haunts my nightmares. “I miss you, Pip,” I whisper, closing my eyes and shivering. And I want to mean it. I want it desperately .

I want to ask her what to do—about Jean Luc, about Frederic, about romance and marriage and crippling disappointment. I want to ask her about her dreams. Did she love the boy she visited at night? Did he love her? Did they envision a life together, the two of them—an illicit life, a thrilling one—before Morgane took her?

Did she ever change her mind?

She never told me, and then she was gone, leaving me with a half-drawn picture of herself. Leaving me with half of her smile, half of her secrets. Half of her face.

Gently, I lay the roses at her feet, turning away with deliberate calm. I will not flee. I will not scream. My sister is still my sister, regardless of how Morgane desecrated her, of how Morgane desecrated me . I breathe deeply, stroking Cabot’s face, and nod to myself—I will return to Chasseur Tower, and I will continue alphabetizing the council library. I will eat a mediocre meal with Jean Luc and our brethren this evening, and I will relish the meat pie and boiled potatoes, the blue wool and heavy Balisarda. “I can carry it,” I tell Cabot, placing a kiss on his nose. “I can do this.”

I will not play pretend.

Then Cabot rears abruptly with a shriek, tossing his head, and nearly breaks my nose.

“Cabot!” I pitch backward, stunned, but he bolts before I can calm him, before I can do anything but steady myself against my sister’s headstone. “What are you—? Come back! Cabot! Cabot, come back !” Heedless, he only picks up speed—inexplicably terrified—cantering around the bend and out of sight. The wagon ricochets off the cobblestones behind him. Crimson roses soar in each direction. They litter the cemetery like drops of blood, except—

Except—

I press against Filippa’s headstone in horror.

Except they wither to black where they touch the ground.

Swallowing hard—my heart pounding a painful beat in my ears—I look to my feet, where Filippa’s roses also curl and bleed, their vivid petals shriveling to ash. Putrid rot fills my senses. This isn’t real. I repeat the frantic words even as I stagger away, as my vision begins to narrow and my throat begins to close. This isn’t real. You’re dreaming . It’s just a nightmare. It’s just—

I almost don’t see the body.

It lies across a grave in the middle of the cemetery, too pale—nearly white , its skin bloodless and ashen—to be anything but dead. “Oh God.” My knees lock as I stare at it. At her . Because this corpse is clearly feminine, her golden hair snarled with leaves and debris, her full lips still painted scarlet, her scarred hands clasped neatly over her chest, like—like someone posed her. I swallow bile, forcing myself to move closer. She wasn’t here when I rode through with Cabot earlier, which means— Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Her killer could still be here.

My gaze darts to each headstone, each tree, each leaf , but despite the storm this morning, all has fallen silent and still. Even the wind has fled this place, as if it too senses the evil here. Head pounding, I creep closer to the body. Closer still. When no one leaps from the shadows, I crouch beside her, and if possible, my stomach sinks further. Because I recognize this woman— Babette . Once a courtesan in Madame Helene Labelle’s infamous brothel, Babette joined Coco and the other Dames Rouges against Morgane le Blanc in the Battle of Cesarine. She fought with us. She—she helped me hide innocent children from other witches; she saved Madame Labelle.

Two neat pinprick wounds decorate her throat where a pulse should be.

“Oh, Babette.” With trembling fingers, I brush her hair from her forehead and close her eyes. “Who did this to you?”

Despite her wan color, no blood soils her gown—indeed, she seems to have sustained no injuries beyond the small wounds at her throat. I pry her hands apart to examine her wrists, her nails, and a cross spills from her palms. She clutched it against her heart. I lift it incredulously, the ornate silver bright and brilliant even in overcast light. No blood. Not even a drop.

It makes no sense . She still looks as if she’s merely sleeping, which means she cannot be long dead—

“ Mariée... ”

When the leaves of a birch rustle behind me, I lurch to my feet, spinning wildly, but no one appears except the wind. It returns with a vengeance, whipping at my cheeks, my hair, urging me to move, to leave this place. Though I yearn to heed its call, the initiate spoke of bodies earlier. Bodies. As in... more than one.

Jean Luc. His name rises like a wall in the maelstrom of my thoughts.

He’ll know what to do. He’ll know what happened here. I take two hasty steps toward Saint-Cécile before stopping, whirling again, and tearing the cloak from my shoulders. I drape it over Babette. Perhaps it’s foolish, but I cannot just leave her here, vulnerable and alone and—

And dead.

Gritting my teeth, I pull the velvet over her beautiful face. “I’ll be back soon,” I promise her. Then I dash for the wrought iron gate without stopping, without slowing, without looking back. Though the sky descends in a fine mist once more, I ignore it. I ignore the thunder in my ears, the wind in my hair. It tears the heavy locks from my chignon. I push them out of my eyes, skidding around the gate—my sense of purpose plummeting with each step because Babette is dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead —and collide headlong with the palest man I’ve ever seen.