Page 125 of The Scarlet Veil

I turn away with a groan, unable to face him, and my sister’snote seems to burn a hole through my bodice. I resist the urge to thrash my head and gnash my teeth as Tears Like Stars had done—because what I mean, of course, isnot ever. Dimitri might make a better suspect than my sister, but if Filippa knew Babette—and that’s a very largeif—does that mean she knew him too? Couldhehave been her mysterious lover? Do I even want to know? “Just stop, Dimitri,” I tell him wearily when he opens his mouth again. “Leave me alone.”

Just stop, Célie. Leave it alone.

Undeterred, he reappears in front of me, reaching into his cloak and withdrawing a small linen sack. “I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but when is the last time you ate? I took the liberty of procuring bread on our way through the city—”

Reacting instinctively, I knock the bag out of his hand, and it crashes to the filthy street between us. I refuse to apologize. “And whatelsedid you take the liberty of procuring?”

He blinks. “I don’t know what you—”

“You still have blood on your collar, Monsieur Petrov.”

Dimitri’s face hardens for a split second before re-forming into a brilliant smile once more. He extracts a golden pear from his cloak next, waving it in front of my nose. “Don’t be like that, darling. Despite what youthinkyou heard in Les Abysses, I am not a murderer—er, notthatmurderer—and you must be ravenous by now. What sense is there in starving yourself?”

“Enough, cousin.” Voice low, Michal leans against the mouth of the alley, watching the commotion at the docks and blending into darkness like he’d been born a shadow instead of a man. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“But she suspects—”

“I know what she suspects, and trust me”—he pins Dimitri with an expectant look over his shoulder—“the two of us are going to have a very long discussion when we return to Requiem. Though I don’t agree that you killed Mila, Iwillhear every detail of your relationship with Babette Trousset, and I’ll learn about the contents of her grimoire too, particularly the page marked FOR LUST OF THE BLOOD.” A dark pause. “I assume you know of it.”

Dimitri glares at him in mutinous silence.

Though I don’t agree that you killed Mila...

I turn away quickly, trying not to curse Michal for his sudden and inconvenient levelheadedness. If he doesn’t suspect Dimitri, he must suspect someone else, and if the note in Filippa’s cross burned any hotter now, it would actually start to smoke.

Tucking it beneath my collar in a would-be casual gesture, I start to pace once more, my thoughts running rampant. Because this isn’t the time or place to dwell on Dimitri. This isn’t even the time or place to dwell on Filippa, and—and because my finest boots are now scuffed. They’re nowstainedfrom our little adventure into Amandine, and the blood will probably never come out. I should’ve soaked them in white vinegar, should’ve scrubbed them until the leather looked shiny and new again. The elderly couple who lived in the town house kept their pantry stockedfullof things like white vinegar and soap, and they never would’ve known if I’d borrowed some. I shake my head as I pace, growing more and more agitated. They never would’ve known if I’d lit my boots onfireeither, or if I shed this bloody dress and ran naked and screaming into La Fôret des Yeux, never to be seen agai—

“Célie.” Once more Michal turns at the mouth of the alley, hislips twisting in a wry grin. Fresh shouts sound from the docks behind him. “Your heart has started to palpitate.”

I lift a hand to my flushed chest. “Has it? I don’t know why.”

“No?”

“No.”

He sighs and shakes his head, pushing off the wall to stand beside me. As always, he clasps his pale hands behind his back, and the familiar gesture brings me a strange modicum of comfort, despite the way he seems to peer down his nose at me. “You escaped an undead creature today.”

I straighten my spine. “Yes, I did.”

“You outwitted a blood witch only hours before that.”

Odessa examines a sharp nail absently. “With help.”

“Both were much cleverer than those you called brethren,” he continues without acknowledging her. Though I long to glance over his shoulder at mention of the Chasseurs, I force myself to concentrate on his face instead. Something like pride glints hard and sharp in his eyes. “They will not check the caskets again, Célie. Even huntsmen fear the idea of death, and—though they’ll never admit it—fear proximity to it as well. After the harbormaster has finished his inspection, we’ll slip inside our inventory without notice, and my sailors will load us aboard our ship without interference. We’ll be back in Requiem before daybreak.”

As if in answer, the harbormaster—a thickset man with swarthy skin and sharp eyes—bangs his gnarled hand upon the last of the caskets and shouts the all clear. His crew moves on to the next cargo scheduled to disembark, leaving the vacant-eyed employees of Requiem, Ltd., to mill about until Michal compels them otherwise. Apparently, this shipment of caskets has been crafted froma rare conifer found only in La Fôret des Yeux—at least, that’s what Michal tells me. It’s been rather difficult to listen to the finer points of his plan when beyond him—beyond the alley, the sailors, and the caskets—Chasseurs swarm the docks, their blue coats like little flares of memory in the darkness. Bright and painful and intrusive.

A familiar voice rises sharply from among them.

I close my eyes at the sound.

“That said,” Michal murmurs, “I can still arrange for you to speak with him.”

Instinctively, my eyes snap open, and they dart over Michal’s shoulder before I can stop them, searching desperately for the one person I do not wish to see.

They find him instantly.

There—striding through the heart of his men—Jean Luc kicks over a barrel of grain in frustration. The contents spill across the feet of an irate farmer, who shouts himself purple at the loss of inventory. Jean Luc, however, has already lunged to straighten the barrel. He hastily scoops the grain from the street with his bare hands, shaking his head and apologizing over the farmer’s tirade. When Frederic kneels to help, Jean Luc curses bitterly and shoves him away.

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