The Scarlet Veil

by Shelby Mahurin

Genres: YA Wizards & Witches

Synopsis

A dark and thrilling vampire romance set in the world of the New York Times bestselling series Serpent & Dove!

Full of everything I love: a sparkling and fully-realized heroine, an intricate and deadly system of magic, and a searing romance that kept me reading long into the night.
Sarah J Maas on Serpent & Dove

Six months have passed since Célie took her sacred vows and joined the ranks of the Chasseurs as their first huntswoman. With her fiancé, Jean Luc, as captain, she is determined to find her foothold in her new role and help protect Belterra. But whispers from her past still haunt her, and a new evil is rising—one that Célie herself must vanquish, unless she falls prey to the darkness.

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 640

Sample

Prologue

It is a curious thing, the scent of memory. It takes only a little to send us back in time—a trace of my mother’s lavender oil, a hint of my father’s pipe smoke. Each reminds me of childhood in its own strange way. My mother applied her oil every morning as she stared at her reflection, counting the new lines on her face. My father smoked his pipe when he received guests. They frightened him, I think, with their hollow eyes and quick hands. They certainly frightened me.

But beeswax—beeswax will always remind me of my sister.

Like clockwork, Filippa would reach for her silver brush when our nursemaid, Evangeline, lit the candles each evening. The wicks would fill the nursery with the soft scent of honey as Filippa undid my braid, as she passed the boar bristles through my hair. As Evangeline settled into her favorite rose-velvet chair and watched us warmly, her eyes crinkling in the misty purple light of dusk.

The wind—crisp on that October night—rustled at the eaves, hesitating, lingering at the promise of a story.

“Mes choux,” she murmured, stooping to retrieve her knitting needles from the basket beside her chair. Our family hound, Birdie, curled into an enormous ball at the hearth. “Have I told you the story of Les Éternels?”

As always, Pip spoke first, leaning around my shoulder to frown at Evangeline. Equal parts suspicious and intrigued. “The Eternal Ones?”

“Yes, dear.”

Anticipation fluttered in my belly as I glanced at Pip, our faces mere inches apart. Golden specks still glinted on her cheeks from our portrait lesson that afternoon. They looked like freckles. “Has she?” My voice lacked Evangeline’s lyrical grace, Filippa’s firm resolve. “I don’t think she has.”

“She definitely hasn’t,” Pip confirmed, deadly serious, before turning back to Evangeline. “We should like to hear it, please.”

Evangeline arched a brow at her imperious tone. “Is that so?”

“Oh, please tell us, Evangeline!” Forgetting myself entirely, I leapt to my slippered feet and clapped my hands together. Pip—twelve years old to my paltry six—hastily snatched my nightgown, tugging me back to the armoire seat. Her small hands landed on my shoulders.

“Ladies do not shout, Célie. What would Pére say?”

Heat crept into my cheeks as I folded my own hands in my lap, immediately contrite. “Pretty is as pretty does.”

“Exactly.” She returned her attention to Evangeline, whose lips twitched as she fought a smile. “Please tell us the story, Evangeline. We promise not to interrupt.”

“Very good.” With practiced ease, Evangeline slid her lithe fingers along the needles, weaving wool into a lovely scarf of petal pink. My favorite color. Pip’s scarf—bright white, like freshly fallen snow—already rested in the basket. “Though you still have paint on your face, darling. Be a lamb and wash for me, will you?” She waited until Pippa finished scrubbing her cheeks before continuing. “Right, then. Les Éternels. They’re born in the ground—cold as bone, and just as strong—without heart or soul or mind. Only impulse. Only lust.” She said the word with unexpected relish. “The first one came to our kingdom from a faraway land, living in the shadows, spreading her sickness to the people here. Infecting them with her magic.”

Pip resumed brushing my hair. “What kind of magic?”

My nose crinkled as I tilted my head. “What is lust?”

Evangeline pretended not to hear me.

“The worst kind of magic, darlings. The absolute worst kind.” The wind rattled the windows, eager for the story, as Evangeline paused 

dramatically—except Birdie rolled over with a warbled howl at precisely the same moment, ruining the effect. Evangeline cut the hound an exasperated look. “The kind that requires blood. Requires death.”

Pippa and I exchanged a covert glance.

“Dames Rouges,” I heard her breathe at my ear, nearly indiscernible. “Red Ladies.”

Our father had spoken of them once, the strangest and rarest of the occultists who plagued Belterra. He’d thought we hadn’t heard him with the funny man in his study, but we had.

“What are you whispering?” Evangeline asked sharply, stabbing her needles in our direction. “Secrets are quite rude, you know.”

Pip lifted her chin. She’d forgotten that ladies do not scowl either. “Nothing, Evangeline.”

“Yes,” I echoed instantly. “Nothing, Evangeline.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Plucky little things, aren’t you? Well, I should tell you that Les Éternels love plucky little girls like you. They think you’re the sweetest.”

The exhilaration in my chest twisted slightly at her words, and gooseflesh erupted down my neck at the stroke of my sister’s brush. I scooted to the edge of my seat, eyes wide. “Do they really?”

“Of course they don’t.” Pip dropped her brush on the armoire with more force than necessary. With the sternest of expressions, she turned my chin to face her. “Don’t listen to her, Célie. She lies.”

“I most certainly do not,” Evangeline said emphatically. “I’ll tell you the same as my mother told me—Les Éternels stalk the streets by moonlight, preying on the weak and seducing the immoral. That’s why we always sleep at nightfall, darlings, and always say our prayers.” When she continued, her lyrical voice rose in cadence, as familiar as the nursery rhyme she hummed every evening. Her needles click click clicked in the silence of the room, and even the wind fell still to listen. “Always wear a silver cross, and always walk in pairs. With holy water on your neck and hallowed ground your feet. When in doubt, strike up a match, and burn them with its heat.”

I sat up a little straighter. My hands trembled. “I always say my prayers, Evangeline, but I drank all of Filippa’s milk at dinner while she wasn’t looking. Do you think that made me sweeter than her? Will the bad people want to eat me?”

“Ridiculous.” Scoffing, Pippa threaded her fingers through my hair to replait it. Though she was clearly exasperated, her touch remained gentle. She tied the raven strands with a pretty pink bow and draped it over my shoulder. “As if I’d ever let anything happen to you, Célie.”

At her words, warmth expanded in my chest, a sparkling surety. Because Filippa never lied. She never snuck treats or played tricks or said things she didn’t mean. She never stole my milk.

She would never let anything happen to me.

The wind hovered

outside for another second—scratching at the panes once more, impatient for the rest of the story—before passing on unsatisfied. The sun slipped fully beneath the skyline as an autumn moon rose overhead. It bathed the nursery in thin silver light. The beeswax candles seemed to gutter in response, lengthening the shadows between us, and I clasped my sister’s hand in the sudden gloom. “I’m sorry I stole your milk,” I whispered.

She squeezed my fingers. “I never liked milk anyway.”

Evangeline studied us for a long moment, her expression inscrutable as she rose to return her needles and wool to the basket. She patted Birdie on the head before blowing out the tapers on the mantel. “You are good sisters, both of you. Loyal and kind.” Striding across the nursery, she kissed our foreheads before helping us into bed, lifting the last candle to our eyes. Hers gleamed with an emotion I didn’t understand. “Promise me you’ll hold on to each other.”

When we nodded, she blew out the candle and made to leave.

Pip wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I nestled into her pillow. It smelled like her—like summer honey. Like lectures and gentle hands and frowns and snow-white scarves. “I’ll never let the witches get you,” she said fiercely against my hair. “Never.”

“And I’ll never let them get you.”

Evangeline paused at the nursery door and looked back at us with a frown. She tilted her head curiously as the moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging us into total darkness. When a branch clawed at our window, I tensed, but Filippa wrapped her other arm around me firmly.

She didn’t know, then.

I didn’t know either.

“Silly girls,” Evangeline whispered. “Who said anything about witches?”

And then she was gone.

 

Chapter OneEmpty Cages

I will catch this repugnant little creature if it kills me.

Blowing a limp strand of hair from my forehead, I crouch again and readjust the mechanism on the trap. It took hours to fell the willow tree yesterday, to plane the branches and paint the wood and assemble the cages. To collect the wine. It took hours more to read every tome in Chasseur Tower about lutins. The goblins prefer willow sap to other varieties—something about its sweet scent—and despite their crude appearance, they appreciate the finer things in life.

Hence the painted cages and bottles of wine.

When I hitched a cart to my horse this morning, loading it full of both, Jean Luc looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Perhaps I have lost my mind.

I certainly imagined the life of a huntsman—a huntswoman—being somewhat more significant than crouching in a muddy ditch, sweating through an ill-fitting uniform, and luring a crotchety hobgoblin away from a field with alcohol.

Unfortunately, I miscalculated the measurements, and the bottles of wine did not fit within the painted cages, forcing me to disassemble each one at the farm. The Chasseurs’ laughter still lingers in my ears. They didn’t care that I painstakingly learned to use a hammer and nails for this project, or that I mutilated my thumb in the process. They didn’t care that I bought the gold paint with my own coin either. No, they saw only my mistake. My brilliant work reduced to kindling at our feet. Though Jean Luc hastily tried to help reassemble the cages as best we could—scowling at our brethren’s witty commentary—an irate Farmer Marc arrived soon after. As a captain of the Chasseurs, Jean needed to console him.

And I needed to handle the huntsmen alone.

“Tragic.” Looming over me, Frederic rolled his brilliant eyes before smirking. The gold in his chestnut hair glinted in the early sun. “Though they are very pretty, Mademoiselle Tremblay. Like little dollhouses.”

“Please, Frederic,” I said through gritted teeth, scrambling to collect the pieces in my skirt. “How many times must I ask you to call me Célie? We are all equals here.”

“At least once more, I’m afraid.” His grin sharpened to a knifepoint. “You are a lady, after all.”

I stalked across the field and down the hill, out of sight—away from him, away from all of them—without another word. I knew it was pointless to argue with someone like Frederic.

You are a lady, after all.

Mimicking his asinine voice now, I finish the lock on the last cage and stand to admire my handiwork. Mud coats my boots. It stains six inches of my hem, yet a flicker of triumph still steals through my chest. It won’t be long now. The lutins in Farmer Marc’s barley will soon smell the willow sap and follow its scent. When they spy the wine, they will react impulsively—the books say lutins are impulsive—and enter the cages. The traps will swing shut, and we will transport the pesky creatures back to La Fôret des Yeux, where they belong.

Simple, really. Like stealing candy from a baby. Not that I’d actually steal candy from a baby, of course.

Exhaling a shaky sigh, I plant my hands on my hips and nod a bit more enthusiastically than natural. Yes. The mud and menial labor have most definitely been worth it. The stains will lift from my dress, and better yet—I’ll have captured and relocated a whole burrow of lutins without harm. Father Achille, the newly instated Archbishop, will be proud. Perhaps Jean Luc will be too. Yes, this is good. Hope continues to swell as I scramble behind

the weeds at the edge of the field, watching and waiting. This will be perfect.

This has to be perfect.

A handful of moments pass without movement.

“Come on.” Voice low, I scan the rows of barley, trying not to fidget with the Balisarda at my belt. Though months have passed since I took my sacred vow, the sapphire hilt still feels strange and heavy in my hands. Foreign. My foot taps the ground impatiently. The temperatures have grown unseasonably warm for October, and a bead of sweat trickles down my neck. “Come on, come on. Where are you?”

The moment stretches onward, followed by another. Or perhaps three. Ten? Over the hill, my brethren hoot and holler at a joke I cannot hear. I don’t know how they intend to catch the lutins—none cared to share their plans with me, the first and only woman in their ranks—but I also don’t care. I certainly don’t need their help, nor do I need an audience after the cage fiasco.

Frederic’s condescending expression fills my mind.

And Jean Luc’s embarrassed one.

No. I push them both away with a scowl—along with the weeds—climbing to my feet to check the traps once more. I should never have used wine. What a stupid idea—

The thought screeches to a halt as a small, wrinkled foot parts the barley. My own feet grow roots. Rapt, I try not to breathe as the brownish-gray creature—hardly the height of my knee—sets his dark, overlarge eyes on the bottle of wine. Indeed, everything about him appears to be a bit too . . . well . . . too. His head too large. His features too sharp. His fingers too long.

To be quite frank, he looks like a potato.

Tiptoeing toward the wine, he doesn’t seem to notice me—or anything else, for that matter. His gaze remains locked on the dusty bottle, and he smacks his lips eagerly, reaching for it with those spindly fingers. The moment he steps into the cage, it shuts with a decisive snap, but the lutin merely clutches the wine to his chest and grins. Two rows of needle-sharp teeth gleam in the sunlight.

I stare at him for a beat, morbidly fascinated.

And then I can no longer help it. I smile too, tilting my head as I approach. He isn’t anything like I thought—not repugnant at all, with his knobby knees and round cheeks. When Farmer Marc contacted us yesterday morning, the man raved about horns and claws.

At last, the lutin’s eyes snap to mine, and his smile falters.

“Hello there.” Slowly, I kneel before him, placing my hands flat on my lap, where he can see them. “I’m terribly sorry about this”—I motion my chin toward the ornate cage—“but the man who farms this land has requested that you and your family relocate. Do you have a name?”

He stares at me, unblinking, and heat creeps into my cheeks. I glance over my shoulder for any sign of my brethren. I might be wholly and completely ridiculous—and they would crucify me if they found me chatting with a lutin—but it hardly feels right to trap the poor creature without an introduction. “My name is Célie,” I add, feeling stupider by the second. Though the books didn’t mention language, lutins must communicate somehow. I point to myself and repeat, “Célie. Say-lee.”

Still he says nothing. If he’s even a he at all.

Right. Straightening my shoulders, I seize the cage handle because I am ridiculous,

and I should go check the other cages. But first— “If you twist the cork at the top,” I murmur grudgingly, “the bottle will open. I hope you like elderberries.”

“Are you talking to the lutin?”

I whirl at Jean Luc’s voice, releasing the cage and blushing. “Jean!” His name comes out a squeak. “I—I didn’t hear you.”

“Clearly.” He stands in the weeds where I hid only moments ago. At my guilty expression, he sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “What are you doing, Célie?”

“Nothing.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“An excellent question. Why don’t you believe—” But the lutin snakes out a hand before I can finish, snatching my own. With a shriek, I jerk and topple backward—not because of the lutin’s claws but because of his voice. The instant his skin touches mine, the strangest vocalization echoes in my mind: Larmes Comme Étoiles.

Jean Luc charges instantly, unsheathing his Balisarda between one stride and the next.

“No, wait!” I fling myself between him and the caged lutin. “Wait! He didn’t hurt me! He meant no harm!”

“Célie,” Jean Luc warns, his voice low and frustrated, “he could be rabid—”

“Frederic is rabid. Go wave your knife at him.” To the lutin, I smile kindly. “I beg your pardon, sir. What did you say?”

“He didn’t say anything—”

I shush Jean Luc as the lutin beckons me closer, extending his hand through the bars. It takes several seconds for me to realize he wants to touch me again. “Oh.” I swallow hard, not quite relishing the idea. “You—yes, well—”

Jean Luc grips my elbow. “Please tell me you aren’t going to touch it. You have no idea where it’s been.”

The lutin gestures more impatiently now, and—before I can change my mind—I stretch out my free hand, brushing his fingertips. His skin there feels rough. Dirty. Like an unearthed root. My name, he repeats in an otherworldly trill. Larmes Comme Étoiles.

My mouth falls open. “Tears Like Stars?”

With a swift nod, he withdraws his hand to clutch his wine once more, glaring daggers at Jean Luc, who scoffs and tugs me backward. Near light-headed with giddiness, I twirl into his arms. “Did you hear him?” I ask breathlessly. “He said his name means—”

“They don’t have names.” His arms tighten around me, and he bends to look directly in my eyes. “Lutins don’t speak, Célie.”

My gaze narrows. “Do you think I’m a liar, then?”

Sighing again—always sighing—he sweeps a kiss across my brow, and I soften slightly. He smells like starch and leather, the linseed oil he uses to polish his Balisarda. Familiar scents. Comforting ones. “I think you have a tender heart,” he says, and I know he means it as a compliment. It should be a compliment. “I think your cages are brilliant, and I think lutins love elderberries.” He pulls back with a smile. “I also think we should go. It’s getting late.”

“Go?” I blink in confusion, leaning around him to peer up the hill. His biceps tense a little beneath my palms. “But what about the others? The books said a burrow can hold up to twenty lutins. Surely Farmer Marc wants us to take them all.” My frown deepens as I realize my brethren’s voices have long faded. Indeed, beyond the hill, the entire farm has fallen still and silent, except for a lone rooster’s crow. “Where”—something hot like shame cracks open in my belly—“where is everyone, Jean?”

He won’t look at me. “I sent them ahead.”

“Ahead where?”

“To La Fôret des Yeux.” He clears his throat and steps backward, sheathing his Balisarda before smiling anew and bending to pick up my cage. After another second, he offers me his free hand. “Are you ready?”

I stare at it as a sickening realization dawns. He would have sent them ahead for only one reason. “They’ve . . . already trapped the other lutins, haven’t they?” When he doesn’t answer, I glance up at his face. He gazes back at me carefully, warily, as if I’m splintered glass, one touch away from shattering. And perhaps I am. I can no longer count the spider web cracks in my surface, can no longer know which crack will break me. Perhaps it’ll be this one.

“Jean?” I repeat, insistent.

Another heavy sigh. “Yes,” he admits at last. “They’ve already trapped them.”

“How?”

Shaking his head, he lifts his hand more determinedly. “It doesn’t matter. Your cages were a brilliant idea, and experience will come with time—”

“That isn’t an answer.” My entire body trembles now, but I cannot stop it. My vision narrows on the cleanly bronze skin of his hand, the brilliant sheen of his close-cropped dark hair. He looks perfectly composed—albeit uncomfortable—while my own strands stick to my neck in disarray and sweat trails down my back. Beneath the mud, my cheeks flush with exertion. With humiliation. “How did they trap an entire burrow of lutins in—” Another horrible thought dawns. “Wait, how long did it take them?” My voice rises in accusation, and I point a finger at his nose. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

Tears Like Stars manages to uncork the bottle, downing half the wine in one swallow. He stumbles as Jean Luc gently returns his cage to the ground. “Célie,” Jean Luc says, his voice placating. “Don’t do this to yourself. Your cage worked, and this one—this one even told you his name. That hasn’t ever happened before.”

“I thought lutins didn’t have names,” I snap. “And do not condescend to me. How

 did Frederic and the others trap the lutins? They’re too fast to catch by hand, and—and—” At Jean Luc’s resigned expression, my face falls. “And they did catch them by hand. Oh God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, each breath coming faster, sharper. My chest tightens to the point of pain. “I—I should’ve helped them, but these traps—” The golden paint leers at me now, tawdry and gauche. “I wasted everyone’s time.”

You are a lady, after all.

“No.” Jean Luc shakes his head fiercely, gripping my filthy hands. “You tried something new, and it worked.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes at the lie. All I’ve done for the last six months is try—try and try and try. I lift my chin, sniffing miserably while forcing a smile. “You’re right, of course, but we shouldn’t leave just yet. There could still be more out there. Perhaps Frederic missed a few—”

“This is the last of them.”

“How can you possibly know if this is the last—?” I close my eyes as my mind finally catches up. When I speak again, my voice is quiet. Defeated. “Did you send him to me?” He does not answer, and his silence damns us both. My eyes fly open, and I seize his royal-blue coat, shaking it. Shaking him. “Did you catch him first, only to—to sneak over here and release him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Did you?”

Averting his gaze, he disentangles himself with firm hands. “I don’t have time for this, Célie. I have an urgent council meeting before Mass this evening, and Father Achille has already sent word—he needed me back at the Tower hours ago.”

“Why is that?” I try and fail to keep the tremor from my voice. “And what—what urgent council meeting? Has something happened?”

It is an old question. A tired one. For weeks now, Jean Luc has slipped away at odd moments, fervently whispering with Father Achille when he thinks I can’t see. He refuses to tell me why they whisper under their breaths, why their faces grow darker each day. They have a secret, the two of them—an urgent one—but whenever I ask about it, Jean Luc’s answer remains the same: “It doesn’t concern you, Célie. Please don’t worry.”

He repeats the words like clockwork now, jerking his chin toward our horses. “Come on. I’ve loaded the cart.”

I follow his gaze to the cart in question, where he stacked my cages in neat rows while I chatted with Tears Like Stars. Nineteen in all. The twentieth he carries as he marches around the field without another word. Tears Like Stars—thoroughly drunk now—slumps against the bars, snoring softly in the late afternoon sunshine. To anyone else, the scene might seem charming. Quaint. Perhaps

 they would nod approvingly at the silver medal on my bodice, the diamond ring on my finger.

You don’t need to wield a sword to protect the innocent, Célie. Jean Luc’s old words drift back to me on the autumn breeze. You’ve proven that more than anyone.

Time has proven us all liars. 

 

Chapter TwoPretty Porcelain, Pretty Doll

For the first time in six months, I skip evening Mass. When Jean Luc knocks promptly on my door at half past seven—our chaperone curiously absent—I feign sickness. Also a first. I don’t lie as a rule, but tonight, I can’t bring myself to care.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I—I think I caught a chill earlier.” Coughing against my elbow, I lean into the dim corridor, careful to keep my body concealed. It wouldn’t do for him to see me in my nightgown—ivory silk trimmed in lace. One of the many silly, impractical things I brought from my parents’ home in West End. Though it doesn’t protect me from the icy drafts of Chasseur Tower, it does make me feel more like myself.

Besides, Jean Luc insisted on a room with a fireplace when I moved into the dormitories.

My cheeks still heat at the memory. Never mind this is the only room with a fireplace in the dormitories.

“Are you all right?” His face twists with concern as he reaches through the gap to check my perfectly normal temperature. “Should I send for a healer?”

“No, no”—I clasp his hand, removing it from my forehead as casually as possible—“peppermint tea and an early night should do the trick. I just turned down the bed.”

At the mention of my bed, he withdraws his hand like I’ve scalded him. “Ah,” he says, straightening and stepping back with an awkward cough. “That— I’m sorry to hear it. I thought maybe you’d want to—but—no, you should most definitely go to sleep.” Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he shakes his head at something I cannot see and clears the rasp from his throat. “If you don’t feel better in the morning, just say the word. I’ll delegate your responsibilities.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Jean.” I lower my voice, resisting the urge to peer around him into the corridor. Perhaps a chaperone has accompanied him, after all. A heavy sort of disappointment settles over me at the thought, but of course he brought a chaperone along—as he should. I would never ask him to risk our reputations or our positions by visiting alone at night. “I can catalog the council library with a cough.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” He hesitates with a tentative smile. “Not when Frederic is perfectly healthy and knows his alphabet.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to return his smile—because my failure with the lutins this morning wasn’t his fault, not truly, and a chaperone for the next six months isn’t either. Indeed, thanks to Jean Luc and our brethren, the lutins reached La Fôret des Yeux unharmed, and Father Marc will be able to harvest his barley in peace. Everyone wins.

Which means I must’ve inadvertently won too.

Right.

Throwing caution to the wind, I rest a light hand against his chest, where my engagement ring sparkles between us in the candlelight. “We both know you won’t delegate my responsibilities if I stay in bed. You’ll do them yourself—and you’ll do them beautifully—but you can’t keep covering for me.” When I lean closer instinctively, he does too, his gaze falling to my lips as I whisper, “You aren’t just my fiancé, Jean Luc. You’re my captain.”

He swallows hard, and the motion fills me with a peculiar sort of heat. Before I can act on it—like I’d even know how to act on it—his gaze flicks over his shoulder once more, and I imagine our chaperone crossing his arms with a scowl. Instead of a pointed cough, however, an amused voice fills the corridor.

An amused, familiar voice.

“Do you want us to leave?” The freckled face of Louise le Blanc—otherwise known as La Dame des Sorcières, or the Lady of the Witches—appears over Jean Luc’s shoulder. With an impish grin, she raises her eyebrows at my expression. “You know what they say about . . . six being a crowd.”

I blink at her in disbelief

“What do you mean six?”

“Nonsense,” says another voice from behind her. “Seven is a crowd, not six.”

If possible, Lou grins wider. “You speak rather definitively on the subject, Beauregard. Would you like to share with the class?”

“He probably would like that.” My eyes widen further as Cosette Monvoisin, leader of the Dames Rouges—the smaller, deadlier faction of witches in Belterra—elbows her way past Jean Luc to stand before me. With a grudging sigh, Jean steps aside and flings the door open to reveal Beauregard Lyon, the king of all Belterra, and his half brother, Reid Diggory, standing behind him.

Well, Beau’s half brother—and my first love.

My mouth nearly falls open at the sight of them. Once upon a time, I would’ve regarded each with suspicion and fear—especially Reid—but the Battle of Cesarine changed all of that. As if reading my thoughts, he lifts his hand in an awkward wave. “I told them we should’ve sent up a note first.”

Of all the group, Reid alone remains without a formal title, but his reputation as the youngest-ever captain of the Chasseurs still precedes him. Of course, that was a long time ago. Before the battle. Before he found his siblings.

Before he discovered his magic.

My smile, however, isn’t forced at all now. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s wonderful to see everyone.”

“Likewise.” Swooping to kiss my cheek, Coco adds, “As long as you forbid Beau from telling tales of his previous exploits. Trust me, he would be the only one who likes them.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Lou stands on tiptoe to kiss my other cheek, and I cannot help it—instinctively, I engulf them both in a bone-crushing hug. “I quite enjoyed hearing about his rendezvous with the psellismophiliac,” she finishes in a muffled voice.

Overwhelming warmth spreads from my chest to my extremities as I release them, as Beau scowls and flicks the back of Lou’s head. “I never should’ve told you about him.”

“No.” She cackles with glee. “You shouldn’t have.”

They all turn to me then.

Though arguably four of the most powerful people in the entire kingdom—if not the most powerful—they stand in the cramped corridor outside my room as if—as if waiting for me to speak. I stare back at them for several clumsy seconds, unsure what to say. Because they’ve never visited me here before. The Church rarely allows visitors into Chasseur Tower, and Lou, Coco, and Reid—they have better reason than most to never step through our doors again.

Thou shalt not suffer

a witch to live.

Though Jean Luc did his best to remove the hateful words after the Battle of Cesarine, their faint imprint still darkens the entrance to the dormitories. My brethren once lived by that scripture.

Lou, Reid, and Coco almost burned for it.

Nonplussed, I finally open my mouth to ask, “Would you like to come in?” just as the bell of Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine tolls around us. That warmth in my chest only builds at the sound, and I beam at the four of them in equal measure. No. The five of them. Though Jean Luc glares at everyone in silent disapproval, he must’ve been the one to invite them, even if it meant skipping Mass. When the bell falls silent at last, I ask, “Am I correct in assuming no one plans to attend the service this evening?”

Coco smirks back at me. “We’ve all caught a chill, it seems.”

“And we know just how to treat it.” Winking, Lou withdraws a paper bag from her cloak and holds it aloft, shaking its contents with evident pride. PAN’S PATISSERIE gleams in bright golden letters beneath her fingers, and the heady scents of vanilla and cinnamon engulf the corridor. My mouth waters when Lou plucks a sticky bun from the bag and presses it into my hand. “They work rather well for a shitty day too.”

“Language, Lou.” Reid shoots her a sharp look. “We’re still in a church.”

In his own hands, he holds a pretty bouquet of chrysanthemums and pansies wrapped in pink ribbon. When I catch his gaze, he shakes his head with a small, exasperated smile and offers it to me over Coco’s shoulder. Clearing his throat, he says, “You still like pink, right?”

“Who doesn’t like pink?” Lou asks at the same time as Coco pulls a deck of cards from her scarlet cloak.

“Everyone likes pink,” she agrees.

“I don’t like pink.” Unwilling to be outdone, Beau presents with a flourish the bottle of wine he held hidden behind his back. “Now, pick your poison, Célie. Will it be the pastries, the cards, or the wine?”

“Why not all three?” Dark eyes sparkling with wicked humor, Coco knocks his bottle away with her cards. “And how do you explain the pillow on your bed if you don’t like pink, Your Majesty?”

Undeterred, Beau forces her cards aside with the neck of his bottle. “My little sister embroidered that pillow for me, as you know very well.” To me, he adds grudgingly, “And all three have been known to cure a soul ache.”

A soul ache.

“That,” I say ruefully, “is a lovely phrase.”

Bristling, Jean Luc steps forward at last to seize both the deck of cards and the bottle of wine before I can choose either one. “Have you all gone mad? I didn’t invite you up here to gamble and drink—”

Coco rolls her eyes. “Are they not drinking wine downstairs at this very moment?”

Jean Luc scowls at her. “It’s different, and you know it.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Captain,” she says in her sweetest voice. Then she turns to me, gestures toward the confiscated cards and

 wine, and adds, “Consider this a prelude to your birthday festivities, Célie.”

“If anyone has earned three days of debauchery, it’s you.” Though she’s still grinning, Lou’s expression softens slightly as she continues. “However, if you’d rather be alone tonight, we completely understand. Just say the word, and we’ll leave you to it.”

With the flick of her wrist and the sharp scent of magic, a cup replaces the sticky bun in my hand, and steam curls in perfect spirals from freshly steeped peppermint tea. With another flick, a glass flagon of honey appears in place of Reid’s flowers. “For your throat,” she says simply.

I glance down at them in wonder.

Though I’ve seen magic before, of course—both the good and the bad—it never ceases to amaze me.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words spill from me too quickly, too eagerly, but I can’t bring myself to pretend otherwise, instead lifting the tea and honey with a helpless shrug. “I mean—er, thank you, but I’m suddenly feeling much better.”

An evening of cards and pastries is exactly what I need after this wretched day, and I want to kiss Jean Luc square on the lips for offering it—except, of course, that I’ve just been horribly rude by refusing Lou’s gifts. Swiftly, I lift the teacup and swallow an enormous mouthful of the scalding liquid instead.

It blisters my throat on contact, and I nearly choke as the others sweep into the room.

Jean Luc thumps my back in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Gasping, I thrust the teacup onto my desk, and Lou pulls out a chair and forces me into it. “I just burned my tongue. Nothing to worry about—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “How can you properly enjoy chocolate éclairs with a burnt tongue?”

I eye the patisserie bag hopefully. “You brought chocolate—?”

“Of course I did.” Her gaze flicks to Jean Luc, who hovers behind me with a rather mutinous expression. “I even brought canelé, so you can stop scowling at me now. If memory serves, you rather like rum,” she adds with a smirk.

Jean shakes his head vehemently. “I do not like rum.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Captain.” With a sharp thumbnail, Coco pricks the tip of her pointer finger, drawing blood, and the scent of magic engulfs us once more. Unlike Lou and her Dames Blanches, who channel their magic from the land, Coco and her kin hold it within their very bodies. “Here.” She dabs the blood

upon my own finger before pouring a drop of honey atop it. “Lou is right—nothing ruins everything like a burnt tongue.”

I don’t look at Jean Luc as I lift the blood and honey to my lips. He won’t approve, of course. Though the Chasseurs have made leaps and bounds in their ideology—led in no small part by Jean Luc—magic still makes him uncomfortable at the best of times.

The instant Coco’s blood touches my tongue, however, the blisters in my mouth heal.

Amazing.

“Better?” Jean Luc asks in a murmur.

Seizing his hand and pulling him away from the others, I smile so hard that my cheeks threaten to burst. “Yes.” I drop my voice to a whisper and gesture toward the desk, where Lou begins distributing pastries. Two for her, of course, and one for everyone else. “Thank you, Jean—for all of this. I know it isn’t typically how you spend your evenings, but I’ve always wanted to learn how to play tarot.” I squeeze his fingers in palpable excitement now. “It really can’t be such a sin to gamble among friends, can it? Not when Lou brought canelé just for you?” Before he can answer, perhaps fearing his answer, I twirl in his arms and rest my head against his chest. “Do you think she knows how to play tarot? Do you think she’ll teach us? I’ve never understood the trick-taking aspect, but between the two of us, surely we can figure it—”

Jean Luc, however, gently disentangles our bodies. “I have no doubt you will.”

I blink in confusion—then cross my arms quickly, cheeks warm. In all the excitement, I forgot that I still wear only a nightgown. “What do you mean?”

Sighing, he straightens his coat in an almost subconscious gesture, and my eyes instinctively follow the movement, landing on a peculiar lump in his chest pocket. Small and rectangular in shape, it appears to be some sort of . . . book.

Odd.

Jean Luc rarely visits me in the council library, and I’ve never considered him to be much of a reader.

Before I can ask, however, his gaze shies away from mine, and he says quietly, “I . . . can’t stay, Célie. I’m sorry. I have business to finish for Father Achille.”

Business to finish for Father Achille.

It takes a full second for the words to penetrate the haze of my thoughts, but when they do, my heart seems to shrink several sizes in my chest. Because I recognize that cloud of regret in his eyes. Because he won’t answer even if I do ask, and because I can’t bear the thought of one more secret between us. One more rejection.

An awkward silence descends between us instead.

“He expects you to finish this business during Mass?” I ask softly.

Jean Luc rubs the back of his neck in obvious discomfort. “Well, er—no. He thought I’d be attending the service this evening, actually, but he’ll understand—”

“So you have at least an hour and a half before he expects you to finish anything.” When he still says nothing, I snatch a robe from its hook beside the door, lowering my voice while Lou makes a show of admiring my secondhand jewelry box. Coco agrees with her loudly, and Beau crinkles the patisserie bag before tossing it at Reid’s head. “Please . . . can your business not wait until Mass is over?” Then—unable to stand still for a second longer—I catch his hand again, determined to keep the pleading note from my voice. I will not ruin this night with

an argument, and I won’t let him ruin it either. “I miss you, Jean. I know you’re incredibly busy with Father Achille, but I’d . . . like to spend more time together.”

He stills in surprise. “You would?”

“Of course I would.” I grasp his other hand now too, lifting both to my chest and cradling them there. Right against my heart. “You’re my fiancé. I want to share everything with you, including a chocolate éclair and our first game of tarot. Besides,” I add weakly, “who else will tell me if Lou tries to cheat?”

He casts another disapproving look in our friends’ direction. “We shouldn’t be playing tarot at all.” With a long-suffering sigh, he brushes a chaste kiss against my knuckles before lacing his fingers through mine. “But I can never tell you no.”

The sweet scents of chocolate and cinnamon seem to spoil at the lie, and the honey on my tongue tastes abruptly bitter. I try to ignore both, try to focus on the indecision in Jean Luc’s gaze. It means he wants to spend time with me too. I know he does. “So your business can wait?” I ask him.

“I suppose it can wait.”

Straining to smile, I kiss his hands once, twice, three times before releasing him to tighten my robe. “Have I told you today what a perfect fiancé you are?”

“No, but feel free to tell me again.” Chuckling, he leads me toward the others, plucking the most decadent of the éclairs from the pile and handing it to me. He doesn’t take a bite, however. He doesn’t claim a canelé either. “You’ll be my partner,” he says, matter-of-fact.

The éclair feels cold in my hand. “You know how to play tarot?”

“Lou and Beau might have taught me on the road. You know”—he clears his throat as if embarrassed, shrugging—“when we shared that bottle of rum.”

“Oh.”

Lou claps her hands together, startling us both, and I nearly drop my éclair in her lap. “He was complete and utter shit,” she says, “so never fear, Célie—we’ll have you trouncing him in no time.”

As if on cue, faint music rises from the sanctuary below, and the light flickers with a great boom of the pipe organ. Jean Luc casts me a quick look when I reach reflexively to steady the nearest candle. A dozen more litter every flat surface of my room. They burn atop my ivory nightstands, my bookshelf, my armoire, competing with the light of the fireplace, where a handful more burn along the mantel. Anyone on the street outside would think they gazed upon a second sun, but not even the sun shines bright enough for me now.

I do not like the dark.

As children, Filippa and I would cling to each other beneath the blanket, giggling and imagining what monsters lived in the darkness of our room. Now I am no longer a child, and I know what monster lurks in the darkness—I know the wet feel of it on my 

skin, the putrid scent of it in my nose. It doesn’t matter how often I scrub, how much perfume I wear. The darkness smells of rot.

I take an enormous bite of éclair to calm the sudden spike of my pulse.

Only an hour and a half remains to eat pastries and play tarot with my friends, and nothing, nothing, will ruin the evening for me—not Jean Luc’s secrets, and certainly not my own. Both will still be waiting for me in the morning.

Our stomachs will be fine, Célie. We’ll all be fine.

We’ll all be fine.

You should show your scars, Célie. They mean you survived.

They mean you survived.

I survived I survived I survived—

Raising my brows at Lou, I say, “You have to promise not to cheat.” Then—on second thought—I turn to Beau as well, pointing the éclair at his nose. “And you.”

“Me?” He swats it away in mock affront. “When everyone knows Reid is the cheater in the family?”

Low laughter rumbles through Reid’s chest as he settles on the edge of my bed. “I never cheat. You’re just terrible at cards.”

“Just because no one ever catches you,” Beau says, dragging a chair over from the corner of the room, “doesn’t mean you never cheat. There’s a difference.”

Reid shrugs. “I suppose you’ll just have to catch me, then.”

“Some of us aren’t privy to magic—”

“He doesn’t use magic, Beau,” Lou says without glancing up, carefully cutting the deck. “We tell him your cards when you aren’t looking.”

“Excuse me?” Beau’s eyes threaten to pop from his head. “You what?”

After nodding sagely while removing her boots, Coco perches on the bed next to Reid. “We consider it a win for us all. Célie, you’re my partner,” she adds as Jean Luc slips out of his coat. When he drapes it over the back of Lou’s chair, the book in his pocket hangs lower than the rest. I try not to look at it. I try not to think. When Jean opens his mouth to protest, Coco lifts a hand to silence him. “No arguments. After all, the two of you will be partners for the rest of your lives.”

Though I force sweet laughter up my throat, I can’t help but think how wrong she is.

A partnership implies trust, but Jean Luc will never tell me his business with Father Achille, and I—

I will never tell him what happened in my sister’s casket.

The nightmare starts as it always does.

A storm rages outside—the cataclysmic sort of storm that shakes the earth, that overturns houses and uproots trees. The oak in our own backyard splinters in two after a lightning strike. When half of it crashes against our bedroom wall—nearly tearing a hole in

the roof—I bolt to Pippa’s bed and dive beneath the covers. She welcomes me with open arms.

“Silly little Célie.” Crooning, she strokes my hair as lightning flashes all around us, but her voice is not her voice at all. It belongs to someone else entirely, and her fingers—they stretch to an unnatural length and contort at the knuckles, seizing my scalp and crackling with energy. Trapping me in her porcelain arms. We’re nearly identical, Pip and I, like black-and-white nesting dolls. “Are you frightened, sweeting? Does the magic scare you?” Though I lurch backward, horrified, she tightens her grip, leering with a too-wide smile. It extends beyond her face. “It should scare you, yes, because it could kill you if I let it. Would you like that, sweeting? Would you like to die?”

“N-No.” The word slips from my lips like a script, like an endless loop I can’t escape. The room begins to spin, and I can’t see, can’t breathe. My chest constricts to a pinpoint. “P-P-Please—”

“P-P-Please.” Sneering derisively, she lifts her hands, but they no longer hold lightning. Marionette strings dangle from each finger instead. They attach to my head, my neck, my shoulders, and when she rises from the bed, I go with her, helpless. A Balisarda appears in my hand. Worthless in my hand. She floats to the floor of our nursery, beckoning me closer, drifting to the painted wooden house at the end of my bed. “Come here, sweeting. Such a lovely little doll.”

At her words, my feet teeter—tink, tink, tinking with each step—and when I look down, I cannot scream. My mouth is porcelain. My skin is glass. Beneath her emerald gaze, my body begins to contract  until I topple over, ...