Page 110 of The Scarlet Veil

“How quickly you forget I’ve been here before.”

“How is that relevant?”

“I know where the courtesans’ rooms are.”

“Oh.” I blink at him, and heat rushes to my face at his meaning. “Oh.”

“As delicious as I find that look”—his eyes darken as we draw to a halt beside one of the enormous stone fireplaces—“it’s incredibly distracting, and we have only an hour and a half before sunrise.” Setting me on my feet, he nods to the black fire before us. “The courtesans’ rooms lie beyond the flames—one of Eponine’s more ingenious security measures. One cannot enter without the blessing of a courtesan.” His subtle emphasis on the wordblessingmakes me frown, but he continues before I can question it. “Those who try burn to death within seconds. This is Hellfire, eternal fire, cast many years ago by La Voisin herself.”

“I know what Hellfire is.” Earlier this year, the same black flames ravaged the entire city of Cesarine, including my sister’s crypt. I stare at the deadly tendrils in trepidation, and at that precise second, the violet-eyed courtesan steps out of the fireplace next to ours—outof it, passing straight through the flames, like the back of the chimney is some kind of door.Which it is, I realize, returning the courtesan’s puzzled wave. A golden doorknob winks at us behind the flames. My gaze darts back to Michal. “What sort ofblessingcould possibly allow us to pass through Hellfire unscathed?”

“It isn’t really a blessing. It’s a loophole in the magic.” He runs his hand along the mantel as if inspecting for dust, but his fingerslinger over its elaborate whorls and shapes too long to be casual. His eyes probe them too intently. Some I recognize—like the serpent and the wide, yawning mouth of Abaddon, demon of the abyss—while others I don’t. “Like all witches, La Voisin wove a gap into her enchantment: courtesans can pass through the flames without harm, as can anyone they bless with a kiss.”

A kiss.

I echo the words faintly. “You— You’re saying that in order to enter Babette’s rooms, a courtesan will need to... kiss us.” He nods once, curt, before stalking to the next fireplace. But that isn’t answer enough. That isn’tnearanswer enough, and this is suddenly the most asinine plan I’ve ever heard. A hundred more questions spring fully formed to my lips as I hurry after him. “Can only the courtesan to whom the room belongs bestow their blessing, or are all courtesans given access to all rooms? If the former, how on earth are we going to procure the blessing of Babette, who is, in fact,dead?” When I step on his heel again, he turns to glare at me. Perhaps that look would’ve once stopped me cold, but now it only spurs me faster. “Won’t asking to enter her rooms raise suspicion? And what are youlookingfor, exactly? Because if it’s the latter, we don’t need to locate her individual rooms at all. We could simplyasksomeone for their blessing to enter any one of these fireplaces—”

“By all means”—tension radiates from his shoulders, his neck, his jaw—“go ask a courtesan for a kiss. I’m sure they’ll give it without question, and no one will run to Pennelope when you ask to enter her dead cousin’s rooms.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Michal.” Lifting my chin, I tilt my head toward the pit, where a handful of courtesans pretendnot to watch us, and two more stare outright, their faces taut with suspicion and anger. Either they overheard our conversation with Pennelope earlier, or they don’t appreciate a pale, imperious man prowling around outside their bedchambers. “We aren’t exactly being inconspicuous as it is, and”—I lower my voice—“and couldn’t you justcompela courtesan to tell us where to go?”

“Doest my ears deceive me, or did the holier-than-thou Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay just suggest we take away free will?” He casts me a sidelong glance. “I had no idea you were so wicked, pet. How delightful.”

Though I flush at his words, chagrined, he continues to feel along each mantelpiece, as thorough and composed as ever. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. If the heat from the fire bothers him, however, he doesn’t show it. “I don’t mean weshouldcompel her,” I say hastily. “I’m merely asking,hypothetically, what would happen if we did.”

“Hypothetically,” he repeats, his voice dry.

“Of course. I would neveractuallysuggest we force someone to do something against their will. I’m not”—I cast about for the right word, failing to find it—“I’m notevil.”

“No, no. Just hypothetically evil.” He rolls his eyes again as I sputter indignantly. “Compulsion requires much greater effort on supernatural creatures than humans. Their own brand of magic protects them. When a vampire slips through their mental shield, he often shatters it, which in turn shatters their mind. It takes supreme self-control to leave a creature intact, and even then, the compulsion might fail.”

Helpless to resist, I ask, “Couldyoudo it, though? As a last resort?”

“Are you implying I’m beyond hypothetically evil?”

Scowling, I try not to sound as flustered as I feel. “And it would work? You wouldn’t shatter anyone’s mind, and the compulsion wouldn’t fail?”

“Hypothetically.”

“If you say the wordhypotheticallyagain—” I exhale hard through my nose, straightening my shoulders and wresting control of myself once more. Bickering will get us nowhere. “How many hours until sunrise?” I ask again.

“One and a quarter.”

Neck still prickling from the courtesans’ gazes, I turn to count each fireplace. Over a dozen overall, closer to a score. “And... what happens if we stay past daybreak?”

“Guests cannot remain in Les Abysses past daybreak.” A low, frustrated noise reverberates from his throat, and his fingers curl upon the mantel like scythes. A piece of stonework crumbles into his palm, littering the hearth in black dust. “Each fireplace is identical,” he murmurs. “No distinguishable markers.”

“Can you scent blood magic through the smoke?” I repress the urge to fidget, to bounce slightly on the balls of my feet. We’ll need at least an hour to search Babette’s rooms properly, if we can even find them at all—and that’s only if Pennelope doesn’t swoop down upon us and ruin everything, which she could do at any moment. Now I do begin to bounce, knitting my fingers together and clutching them tight. “Babette wasn’t particularly trusting. She might’ve placed additional protections on her door, especially after falling in with someone dangerous.”

But Michal only shakes his head. “Too many smells.”

He stalks to the next fireplace. And the next. With each one, hegrows more agitated, but his agitation looks different from mine—instead of growing flustered and animated, he grows cold and quiet. Succinct. No emotion whatsoever flickers across his expression as he studies each curve in the stone, and he refuses to hurry. Every step is deliberate. Calm and controlled. Part of me wants to shake him, just to see if he’d crack, while the rest knows better. This might be our only opportunity to learn about the killer, and we cannot waste it.

I pace behind him, searching for anything he might’ve missed, but of course there’s nothing—the stonework on each mantelisidentical, as are the shadows dancing on the walls between them. I glare at each one in turn. They seem humanoid in shape, almost like ghosts, except—

I bolt upright at the thought.Ghosts.

What was it Michal said about his sister?She’ll be back. The temptation to meddle is too great.Unexpected hope swells in my chest. Nothing could be more meddlesome than this exact situation, and evidently—if Mila died in Cesarine but chose to haunt Requiem—ghosts aren’t confined to the land on which they died. Could she have followed us here? Couldshetell us which fireplace belonged to Babette?

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