Page 112 of The Scarlet Veil

Michal looks seconds away from hurling himself into the fire. With the air of a man trying and failing to reclaim control of the situation, he asks in a terse voice, “How familiar are you with Les Abysses, Guinevere? Do you visit often?”

She whirls toward him in an instant. “Why? Are you implying I followed you here? Is that what you think?Poor, pathetic Guinevere, she must’ve been pining after me for all these centuries—” She snaps her fingers under his nose, eyes blazing bright and liquid silver. “A woman hasneeds, Michal, and I will not be shamed for seeking companionship in the afterlife. Do you hear me? I will not be shamed!”

I touch her arm lightly before she can gouge his eyes out. Or before Michal can open his mouth again. “No one is trying to shame you, Guinevere.” Though how, exactly, a ghost seeks companionship among the livingissomething I plan to ask about later. “We just— We need a favor.”

She arches a narrow brow. “Oh?”

“We need to know which of these fireplaces leads to Babette Trousset’s rooms.”

“Ooooh,” she repeats with relish, looking infinitely more intrigued. “And whatever do you wantthere? Rumors abound that the girl is dead.” At this, she cuts a sly, significant look at Michal, twirling another ringlet around her finger. The gesture reeks of nonchalance, but—much like Michal’s performance with the fireplaces earlier—there’s nothing nonchalant about it. My eyes narrow slightly.

Guinevere knows something we don’t.

Worse still—if I know her at all, she’ll try to bait us with her secret for as long as possible, relishing in our struggle. We don’t have time to dangle on the end of her hook, and even if we did, Michal would need to crawl on his belly and beg before Guinevere told him anything. She’d want him to squirm. To suffer. Our friendship has lasted all of three seconds; it’ll do nothing to heal a centuries-old grudge.

Michal’s face darkens with the same realization.

“We want to search her rooms, to see if she left anything behind that might point us to her killer.” I watch Guinevere’s face carefully, frowning at the way her lips quirk slightly at the corners. Her eyes glitter with malice, or perhaps glee; perhaps the two are one and the same with Guinevere. “Can you tell us which way to go?”

“Of course I can, darling. Anything for afriend.” She twists the word in her mouth like a barbarous thing, and I tense, waiting for the sting. Instead, she taps the tip of my nose with her finger before pointing it at the fireplace directly beside us. “Thatis your entrance, though I am loath to inform you that no courtesan herewill give their blessing to enter. ’Tis bad luck to meddle in affairs of the dead—just a word to the wise, cherub,” she adds to me, winking viciously.

“Any courtesan can give their blessing?” I ask.

She shrugs a delicate shoulder. “The enchantment got a little sticky when the evil hag tried to personalize it to each fireplace—plus the turnover of staff, you know. It turned into a logistical nightmare. No, a one-for-all enchantment fit best, and anyone who wears the color red can bestow—” She stops abruptly, clamping her lips together and blinking hastily between us. She needn’t finish the thought, however.

Michal does it for her.

His gaze descends to my rumpled crimson gown, and at the sight of it, he smiles. It’s a lethal smile—a victorious one—and it trails gooseflesh down my spine like a cold finger.Hiscold finger. Though he raises his brows at me, expectant, he makes no move in my direction.Waiting, I realize with a flush of familiar heat. It collides with the chill of his gaze into a tempest.

Anyone who wears the color red can bestow their blessing.

Scoffing in a rather panicked way, Guinevere darts between us. “I don’t knowwhatpossessed you to wear such a garish color, Célie, but it really doesn’t suit—”

“Excuse me, Guinevere.”

“But Célie,darling, you shouldn’t—”

I step around her, hardly hearing her, and walk with purpose toward Michal. Though my heart thunders, I cannot hear it either. I cannot hear anything except the deafening roar in my ears.You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself firmly.It’s just a kiss. It’s for the investigation. He still doesn’t move. Still doesn’t speak. His smile widens,however, as the tip of our boots touch, as I stretch onto tiptoe, as I lift my face toward his. No one should be this beautiful up close. His lashes fan thick and dark against his eyes as he lowers his gaze to my lips.

“I have to kiss you,” I whisper.

Again, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with startling affection. “I know.”

He isn’t going to do it for me, however. He can’t. And if I wait much longer, I’ll lose my nerve—or worse, Guinevere will drag me away by my hair, and the two of us will never know what lies in Babette’s rooms.It’s for the investigation, I repeat in desperation, and—before I can change my mind—I press my lips to his.

For a second, he doesn’t move. I don’t move. We simply stand there, his hand still cupping my cheek, until humiliation flares swift and hot in my belly. Though my experience is limited, Ihavekissed one or two men before, and I know it isn’t supposed to be so—so stiff and awkward and—and—

I move to pull away, cheeks burning, but his free hand rises swiftly to capture my waist, pulling me flush against him. When I gasp, startled, his hand slides into my hair, and he tips my face back to deepen the kiss. My mouth parts instinctively in response, and the instant our tongues touch, a deep and potent heat unfurls inside me—slower than before, but stronger, suffusive. An ache instead of a throb. I close my eyes against it—helplessagainst it—and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing closer and reveling in the strange feel of him. His breath is colder than mine. His body larger, harder, deadly enough to kill. Though I mold my own against it, desperate to find friction, to welcome his heavy weight, I cannot move close enough to ease the ache, cannot coax him toenvelop me completely. No, he holds me like glass until I think I might scream. And perhaps I alreadyamscreaming. Because this is Michal.Michal.I can’t— I shouldn’t be—

Gasping again, I wrench my lips away and stare at him in shock. He doesn’t release me, instead staring right back for one heartbeat. Two. The room falls away even as Guinevere sputters behind us, indignant, until only Michal and I remain. His hands tighten upon my waist infinitesimally. This close, I should be able to feel his heartbeat, should be able to see a flush in his cheeks, but of course, he remains as pale and strange as ever. Not a hair out of place. At last, with a slightly mocking smile, he brushes a thumb across my cheek and says, “No one would be disappointed, Célie.”

Without another word or backward glance, he strides into the fireplace without me.

Chapter Thirty-Five

A Spell to Resurrekt the Dead

I lift trembling fingers to my lips as he goes. They still feel cold. They ache and they tingle. Exhaling the breath I’d been holding—an odd heaviness settling over me—I open my mouth to say something to Guinevere before closing it again, shaking my head.

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