Page 24 of The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mathilde

The face lunges from the wall, snapping its teeth in this cottage’s third attempt to bite me.

This time, however, I react too slowly, and the teeth catch my nose between them. Pain erupts across my face as those teeth clamp down, down, down , shaking slightly like a dog with a bone. Shrieking, I punch at it blindly, and Michal wrenches the hideous thing from the wall until its ears appear, followed by its neck. Its shoulders. Its chest and its waist and its—

Oh.

I gasp, still clutching my nose, as a decrepit old woman lands upon the carpet, rolling over to glower up at us. Without a word of explanation, she brushes the metallic tint from her ample bosom, the sleeves of her simple linen shift. Brass dust flies in all directions, but most of it—somehow—settles upon Michal’s face. He blinks it from his eyes in distaste. “Hello, Mathilde,” he says dryly.

“You’ll be paying for the destruction of my property, leech,” she snaps back at him, wiping the blood from her nose.

“Ah, how I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t you dare lay that disgusting charm on me like we’re old chums. I told you not to come back, yet here you are, bold as brass.” She stands on unsteady feet and rubs her backside with an irritable harrumph , surveying the two of us with beady blue eyes as the house gradually stops its rumbling. “Vampires. Always sticking their noses in my business—”

“I’m not certain I still have a nose,” I say indignantly.

“And it serves you right, doesn’t it? Teach you not to go poking it where it doesn’t belong. How did you even get in here?”

Rolling his eyes, Michal shrugs out of his leather surcoat in an attempt to shake out the brass dust. “I own this house, Mathilde.”

“Bah! Blackmail, pure and simple.” She shuffles to the settee, collapsing upon it and lifting her stout feet onto the footstool, which wasn’t there a moment ago. I blink suspiciously, peering around the rest of the room through my fingers. Unwilling to release my nose for fear of revealing a mangled heap of flesh and nostril to Michal. “And what is ownership, anyway, but the superficial right of possession? No, no, this property shall not be seized by any government while I live herein—”

Though Mathilde continues on—and on and on—I stop listening the instant Michal’s eyes find mine. They narrow slightly, and I tense as he strides toward me, ignoring my protests and prying my hands from my face. He peers between them to inspect my nose—looking utterly ridiculous with brass powder across his cheeks—before shaking his head and murmuring, “Ruined, I’m afraid.”

“Shut up, Michal.” Pushing him away, I feel it tentatively for any sign of damage. There doesn’t seem to be any, and a warm glow suffuses my chest at the sight of his treacherous little half smirk. Dangerous is what that is. What he is.

Very dangerous.

Belatedly, I realize I won the bet, and the possibilities both thrill and terrify me.

“Are the two of you even listening to me?” Mathilde makes an angry sound from the settee. “Of course you aren’t. It smells like a gods-damned whorehouse in here—”

Michal arches a brow at the books scattered across the floor. “Are you sure that isn’t eau de Milking the Minotaur ?”

Mathilde squawks in outrage. “The audacity! You charge into my home, obliterate my parlor, and dare to insult my creature comforts? One would think the nosebleeds and tremors are enough. Beastly things, they are, most inconvenient—”

“—and also why we’re here.” Though Michal turns to face her, he halts abruptly when I reach up to wipe the powder from his face. Then—incredibly—he bends slightly to make it easier. I watch my fingers on his skin as if they belong to someone else, unable to withdraw them if I tried. Michal swallows.

In the next second, however, something sharp pokes between us. It spears him in the stomach as we spring apart, and he glares down at the fireplace poker Mathilde somehow wields from the settee. “Am I interrupting again?” she asks sharply. “I thought you were here to proposition me .”

His disgruntled gaze flicks to her, and he jerks the poker from her hand.

In an instant, a wide smile splits her face, and she waggles her brows in an extremely Lou-ish gesture. “Shall I direct you to the guest bedroom instead?”

If God could choose this single moment to smite me, I might thank him. As he does not, however, I am forced to step in front of Michal and pretend this is a perfectly normal situation I’ve created. Fixing a bright smile on my face, I clench my hands in my skirt. “My apologies, madame. I do not know what came over me—”

Mathilde cackles. “I do.”

With a heavy sigh, Michal says, “We need information, Mathilde, and if you give it to us, we’ll make it worth your while.”

“If you’re talking of sexual favors, young man—”

“I am talking ,” he says, “of transferring ownership of this house in exchange for counsel about the revenants—specifically, how to kill them.”

All humor I might’ve found in our situation shrivels to a knot in my chest.

Likewise, Mathilde’s smile vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“Be reasonable, Mathilde. The revenants are becoming a problem, even for you. Those holes they’ve torn through the veil aren’t just making the forest weep—they’re making your house shake and your nose bleed. I assume they’re affecting your magic too.” He tosses the poker aside, and it lands atop her creature comforts with a muffled thud. She harrumphs again and crosses her arms. “If that isn’t enough, they’re also crawling through the streets of Cesarine in a blind rage. How long before they make their way to Chateau le Blanc? How long before they feast on your progeny?”

“My progeny are dumber than posts,” she says shortly. “They deserve anything they get from the revenants, and I won’t be lifting a finger to stop them.”

I blink at her, horrified. “Lou is one of the cleverest people I’ve ever known.”

Mathilde only sneers, turning to lean against the arm of the settee and staring irritably out the diamond-paned window. Her legs tremble only a little. “You can’t have known many people, then, can you, petal?”

A different sort of heat licks up my spine now, and a noise of outrage tears from my throat. Civility be damned. “You will not insult Louise le Blanc in front of me.”

“How convenient.” She jerks her chin over my shoulder. “There’s the door.”

“You haven’t even met her—”

“Don’t need to. Don’t want to.” She lifts her beaklike nose obstinately, and there, right on the tip, is the familiar wart of which Lou is so fond. The comparison rankles. This crotchety old woman with her erotica and spite does not deserve a granddaughter like Lou. “Not interested in acts of matricide either.”

“Says the woman who tried to drown Morgane in a toilet,” I say heatedly.

“That was different!”

“ How , madame?”

We glare at each other for a long moment, fierce green eyes pitted against beady blue ones. Then— “I wasn’t supposed to get caught,” Mathilde mutters.

“You filthy hypocri —”

“Consider it a favor to me.” Michal hooks a finger under my bodice, shooting me a warning look as my teeth begin to lengthen without permission. I can still scent her blood, after all, and the smell of it is—I recoil abruptly with a spark of awareness. The smell of it is oddly... familiar . Even the sharp scent of the house and all its magic cannot quite disguise that underlying note of roses. Michal’s fingers wind tighter around my bodice strings. “Come now, Mathilde. There are not many people to whom I owe favors in this world.”

“No, it’s just the one for you, isn’t it?” Mathilde asks shrewdly, then cackles when Michal’s eyes narrow. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Did you not expect me to overhear your repartee with this little tart? Perhaps you shouldn’t shout it across the entire island, then, hmm? Word travels fast, mon roi”—her eyes glitter in triumph at his black expression—“or should I not call you that anymore? Imagine my shock at seeing such a very dead man strolling up to my cottage, arm in arm with the girl he died to protect. Seems to me that a quick note to the Old City would clear up any misunderstanding—”

I move instinctively, breaking away from Michal and debating how best to hurl Mathilde from the window. As if sensing the danger, Mathilde rises with unexpected agility, and something ancient stirs within her gaze. Something powerful. “Best check that temper, petal,” she says in a low voice, “unless you want me to lose mine.”

I touch my tongue to the tip of one fang. “Your nose is bleeding again.”

Her gnarled fingers curl.

Before either of us can make good on our threats, however, Michal steps directly between us. “I would think very carefully about how you proceed, Mathilde,” he says softly. “You make a powerful enemy, yes”—he tilts his head, eyes glittering as he studies her pale face—“but let us not pretend I’m the only one here who’d prefer their existence to remain secret.”

Though we both frown, Mathilde doesn’t seem confused by his cryptic warning. No, she glares at Michal with that same ancient power—shifting, assessing, tasting the truth in his words. It makes little sense, however; Mathilde lives on an island inhabited by creatures with preternatural senses. Surely she cannot hide from them completely, and especially not with broken magic. My teeth rescind as skepticism—and perhaps a touch of sheepishness—replaces that streak of protectiveness. I did think Michal died only hours ago. “Do the vampires not know about you, Mathilde?”

“Oh, they know a powerful witch lives on the far side of the isle,” Michal says. “They know to avoid her if possible. They do not, however, know who she truly is. What she truly is,” he adds significantly.

“ What she is... meaning an ancestor of La Dame des Sorcières?”

“Among other things.”

It isn’t an answer, and everyone knows it. Before I can demand a real explanation, however, Mathilde harrumphs again, throwing herself upon the settee and settling into the pillows once more. “It seems we’ve reached an impasse, then, haven’t we?” Still, all traces of that ancient power vanish, replaced by a rather curmudgeonly expression, as she crosses her arms and adds, “I’ll keep your secret, but I’m still not interested in your favors .”

She says the last like a dirty word, and Michal exhales slowly as if praying for patience. “Everyone has a price, Mathilde. What do you want if not my favor or my house?”

Her lips purse, and she folds her gnarled hands across her ample bosom. Then, after a moment of consideration, she says, “I want my hatbox.”

If she expected a reaction to such a strange demand, she does not get it—not from Michal, anyway. I , however, blink at her in bewilderment, my brow furrowing as my confusion spirals higher. “Your hatbox ? Do you mean the hatbox you gave Odessa?”

“ Gave? ” Leaping to her feet again—grimacing at the movement—Mathilde thrusts a crooked finger toward the ceiling. “I was coerced ! Tricked! She might as well have applied thumbscrews—”

“Deal.” Without another word, Michal bites his palm and extends the fresh blood to Mathilde, who eyes it suspiciously. After another moment, however—in which still no one manages to explain—she sighs and extracts a silver knife from her pocket before slicing her own palm. My stomach contracts in macabre fascination as she slaps her palm against his. When she clicks her fingers irritably, the scent of magic blooms once more. Softer this time. Enduring. “A blood oath,” Michal says, steadying her when she staggers slightly. “Your hatbox in exchange for everything you know about the revenants—and how to defeat them.”

She seems unable to help herself. “And if I don’t know how to defeat them?”

“As one of said revenants is trapped inside your hatbox,” I say, “I certainly hope you do.”

Mathilde curses, and her magic pulses in response—once, twice—before erupting into an acrid cloud of incense and earth. Of rot . Only then does she release Michal with a fierce scowl. “Have I mentioned how much I loathe vampires?”

Much like Mathilde’s cluttered cottage, her garden bursts with foliage of every size, shape, and color. There are Bluebeard blossoms here, yes, but also rhododendrons, azaleas, and climbing roses. Tree peonies. Mauve wisteria. They all form a sort of natural barrier against the rest of the woods, boxing in the vegetable patch—cabbage, carrots, and cauliflower, leeks and mushrooms, and a dozen others I cannot name—along with a small patio of paver stones. A petal-strewn pond full of lilies and frogs completes the would-be idyllic scene.

Would-be because, tragically, everything is dead.

Everything except the bear.

I try not to stare as it plods around the water’s edge, pointedly shuffling its back to us before dropping onto its belly and expelling a disgruntled sigh.

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. Of course I have attendants—just because you couldn’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 I really want 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 with reckless 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 it hurt ?” 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 that pot —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 of you .”

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 I hate it. 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 called me a 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 can you talk 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.”

Realization dawns . “That night you left the castle...” My voice trails off as I drift back to a different time, a different life, when Michal warned me—still human—not to roam the isle without him. “When you claimed you had business elsewhere, you came here, didn’t you? To interrogate Mathilde about me.”

Michal inclines his head.

“ Why? ”

“Your scent resembles hers.” He lifts a shoulder, but the movement is too tense to be careless. “I recognized it almost instantly, though I didn’t know what it meant at the time.”

Mathilde hides a smirk behind her bowl of café. “You should’ve taken a leaf out of my book, petal, and stayed hidden. Death might fancy us, but no good ever comes from other people knowing it.”

“Oh, not this again,” Guinevere says in a bored voice, and together, we whirl toward the sound. “Death never fancied you, Mathilde, and for someone who claims to disparage company, your garden always seems occupied.”

She drifts up through the pond in the next second—rolling her eyes at the bear—and I startle at her unexpected presence, remembering the last I saw her. Or rather, the last I dreamed of her, alive, as she danced arm in arm with a human D’Artagnan. Beware of your sister. Unease shivers down my spine as I stare at her now, but at least Michal’s eyes still glow silver too.

A strange comfort.

“What—what are you doing here, Guinevere?” I ask testily.

“The same as him.” She sweeps a disgruntled hand toward the bear, which growls at her with its eyes closed. “Though I’d never choose a bear as my disguise. A swan, perhaps,” she says thoughtfully, glancing at the pond, “but of course you would reserve your ire for me either way. Typical. May I ask where else I should be, Célie darling? Safe havens such as these are becoming few and far between.”

“Safe havens?” Michal asks sharply.

Guinevere’s eyes widen in shock and delight upon realizing he can see her. “Well, hello again, Michal. My, my, my, how fortuitous this invitation turned out to be.” Guinevere settles into the fourth chair at the table and casts him a flirtatious look, batting her lashes and twining a ringlet around her finger. When he stares back at her, expressionless, her smile falters slightly. She blinks at him in confusion before flicking her silver eyes to me. They bulge in horror. “Why aren’t you touching him? Why can he see me, Célie? What have you done ?”

Now Michal does smile, sleek and knife sharp. “I think you know, Guinevere.”

A beat of silence.

Then Guinevere swells, shooting from her chair in outrage, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, while Mathilde snorts and nearly falls out of her own. “This is—you cannot—Michal, how could you?” Guinevere wails, wringing her hands as Michal rolls his eyes. “I waited . I was—I was saving myself for when you—”

“ Saving yourself?” Mathilde guffaws wildly now, pounding her fist upon the iron table. “Ha! You’ve been spreading your ether to every dangling participle from here to Amandine for the last five hundred years. It never would’ve worked between you. This one prefers an ingenue.” She jerks her thumb at Michal before clicking her fingers again, and a book thuds inside the cottage. It ricochets off the doorjamb and flies into the garden, soaring straight through Guinevere’s forehead. Michal catches it on instinct.

“ The Big and Little Deaths: A Ghost’s Guide to Self-Gratification ,” he says dryly, arching a brow. “Niche read.”

Mathilde bows her head, still cackling and enormously proud of herself. “For your pleasure, Guinevere.”

Michal’s blood creeps into my face, painting my cheeks scarlet with mortification. Because this has gotten ridiculous. Snatching the book from Michal, I fling it back into the cottage and snap, “We can discuss self-gratification at another time. You made a blood oath to tell us about the revenants, Mathilde.”

She wags a gnarled finger. “Ah, petal, but I never said when .”

At Michal’s black look, however, her crooked grin fades, and she gives another disgruntled harrumph. “Oh, all right . Wretched spoilsports.”

Still, she takes her time fishing the blackened frond from her café before dumping the rest on her dead azaleas, which lap up the liquid greedily, shudder, and shoot up another inch. Then— “You’re a Bride of Death,” Mathilde says grudgingly, “so you know the requirements. I should’ve died at the ripe age of nine—slid right off a crag in La F?ret des Yeux and split open my head—but Death chose to spare me in the form of Josephine Monvoisin.”

When I gasp, she nods in grim delight. Guinevere sighs, plucking an azalea from the vine and tucking it into her décolletage. She glances plaintively at Michal.

He closes his eyes as if pained.

“She found me at the bottom of the cliff, and she must’ve sensed his presence—was always a bit too interested in Death, if you ask me. Obsessed, even.” Shrugging, Mathilde pauses dramatically to slurp the dregs of her bowl with relish. “My own mother didn’t care whether I lived or died, so Josephine insisted I return to the blood camp with her and that wraith of hers.” She clicks her fingers in agitation, trying to remember the name.

“Nicholina,” Guinevere says by rote.

“Aha!” Mathilde snaps triumphantly. “Nicholina. Never liked her.”

“You don’t seem to like anyone,” I point out.

“Too right you are, and for good reason—Josephine took me on as an apprentice of sorts, so she could poke and prod me every chance she got.” Mathilde’s lip curls. “I was just a child, so I let her do it. Couldn’t wait to be rid of her, though, so I seized the chance to return to Chateau le Blanc when my dear old maman died. Never looked back.”

She hesitates with surprising thoughtfulness, tapping her fuzzy chin. “Learned a lot from her. Evil woman, to be sure, but more powerful than anyone should be.”

“And did you ever read Josephine’s grimoire?”

Mathilde leers in evident pride. “Of course I did. She might’ve been powerful, but I was a plucky thing, even then. I snuck into her tent and flipped through it every chance I got. Tried to tear a page out of it once, but the damned thing refused to give it to me—so I copied it down instead.” With a wince and a flick of her wrist, a single sheaf of parchment appears between her fingers. “She took my blood for it, after all.”

Yellowed with age, the parchment carries childish handwriting in faded black ink, with a familiar title across the top:

A SPELL TO RESURREKT THE DEAD

Recognition flares, and I lean forward to tug the page from her grasp, skimming it eagerly. Frederic’s scratch marks are absent in this version—Mathilde would’ve copied the spell before he was born—but the chilling Blood of Death remains the same. I turn the page over in search of something else, something new about the revenants, but find nothing. Michal bends to examine it over my shoulder, and even Guinevere pauses in curling a ringlet around her finger to listen.

“Is this it?” I look to Mathilde, crestfallen. “You—you really don’t know how to defeat them?”

“More words in my mouth,” she says irritably, snatching the page back. “You asked about her grimoire, and I answered you. What you’ve forgotten, silly girl, is that I lived with La Voisin. Do you think I let her steal my blood without learning how she put it to use? Do you think I didn’t know her tricks? Of course I did. I followed her that night, and I watched her resurrect that corpse. I watched it nearly bludgeon her unconscious too, watched it take a bite out of her leg before she managed to kill it again—permanently this time.”

“How did she do it?” Michal asks with an edge to his voice.

But—something niggles at the back of my mind, growing more insistent with each word she says. I’d never thought of it before, never questioned how any of the spells in La Voisin’s grimoire came to be. In wake of Mathilde’s explanation, however, it seems painfully obvious—of course La Voisin would’ve tested each one. She wouldn’t have committed any of them to her precious grimoire if they hadn’t proved successful, which means... “Did she tear a hole through the veil too?” I ask urgently.

Mathilde’s eyes snap to mine. “ That , petal, is the more interesting question.”

The bear at the pond lifts its head.

“When Josephine resurrected that poor man, she tore a hole through the veil, all right, but a small one—it healed itself the instant she incinerated him. Turned him to powder,” she adds in answer to Michal’s question. “ Fire. It’ll kill any undead creature, won’t it? Ashes to ashes, and all that. Vampire, revenant—doesn’t matter in the end.” She waves a dismissive hand, but nothing in her words feels trivial to me. Instead my skin crawls at the implication. Worse still is that niggle at the back of my mind. It insists I look at it—acknowledge it—but I refuse, recoiling from it instinctively.

When Josephine resurrected that poor man, she tore a hole through the veil, all right.

It healed itself the instant she incinerated him.

Though Michal’s hard gaze settles upon my face, I refuse to look at him too. “Is there no way to help them?” he asks. “Only death?”

Mathilde skewers him with a pointed look. “They’re already dead, Michal. We can only outrun it for so long—outrun him . No one lives forever.”

A heaviness settles over the garden with her words, and even the plants seem to wilt just a little more.

Mathilde doesn’t seem to notice, instead continuing without missing a beat: “But the hole that night is nothing— nothing —compared to whatever opened on All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve never sensed anything like it, which leads me to believe something went wrong with that spell of Frederic’s.” She pauses significantly, her eyes bright as they find mine. “Or something went very, very right.”

Neither Michal nor I question how she knows about the grotto and Frederic. This is exactly the information we needed. Mathilde has given us a way to protect Requiem, Belterra too, and now we can start mending all those little rips of which Mila spoke. Fire. It’ll kill any undead creature, won’t it?

Why, then, do I feel so sick?

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn to look at Michal. “What do you think?”

Guinevere floats to the armrest of his chair, resting her chin on her fist and glaring at him in unabashed resentment. “Yes, Michal, what do you think about your dead lover and her dead sister?”

I flinch at that, but Michal ignores her, searching my face for a long moment—or perhaps a single second—before his gaze drifts past me to the pond. His jaw clenches. “I think it’s time to leave.”

It seems our truce is over.

That lump in my throat spreads, almost choking me now. I cannot bring myself to move. I cannot bring myself to leave. When I do, everything will change again; everything will break.

We can only outrun it for so long.

“The first agreeable thing you’ve said all morning.” Heedless, Mathilde slaps her hands against the table and uses them to push to her feet. “D’Artagnan will escort you from my property.”

“D’Artagnan?” Frowning, I glance toward the bear as it lumbers to its feet. Sure enough, its— his —eyes gleam familiar and amber from the thick black fur of his face. When he makes an odd chuffing noise that sounds like laughter, I recognize his voice. His sharp teeth. My heart pitches to my feet.

“I told you to beware of your sister.”