Page 126 of The Scarlet Veil

I take a small, involuntary step forward.

Jean Luc.

My chest seems to seize at the sight of him—so near to me, sodearto me, yet so far away too. We were so similar once. I still remember the fierce, determined gleam in his eyes during the Battle of Cesarine. We spent the greater part of the night whisking children into the relative safety of Soleil et Lune. Despite thehorror of the circumstances, I’d never felt more connected with another person. Both of us working hand in hand with a common purpose: to serve those children, yes, but also to serve each other. We’d formed a partnership that night—a true partnership—and that morning, when Jean had covertly wiped the tears from Gabrielle’s cheeks, I’d known I loved him.

My heart aches at the memory.

Looking at him tonight feels like looking into a broken mirror; his reflection is somehow sharper than before. Fractured. Though his dark hair remains the same, his eyes now shine with a crazed sort of light, and deep shadows have crept beneath them, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. At his orders, Chasseurs seize luggage for impromptu search, while the constabulary have formed several blockades throughout the docks, carefully inspecting the face of each and every individual who passes. One of them snatches the arm of an unsuspecting woman with dark hair, refusing to release her until her husband—who holds a squalling baby with one hand and a shrieking toddler with the other—threatens civil action.

Across the way, Basile has accidentally let loose a flock of chickens, and dozens of men dart around the water’s edge, trying to catch them before the harbormaster’s dog, which barks gleefully and snaps at passersby’s heels. Charles holds a crimson gown from another woman’s luggage up to the torchlight while Frederic attempts to calm the seething harbormaster, who storms toward the farmer and Jean Luc with several of his crew in tow.

“You’re a blundering fool!” He jabs Jean Luc hard in the chest, and those nearest him all mutter their bitter agreement. “Fifty yearsI’ve been running these docks, and I’ve never seen such a slipshod show of things—”

“Ruined!” Bellowing in rage, the farmer kicks his barrel of soiled grain to the street all over again. Jean Luc watches mutely as the kernels pour over his boots. “I’ll be reporting this to the king,huntsman. Over a hundred quarts you’ve cost me,and mark my words, you’ll pay for every couronne you’ve lost—”

“And whereisold Achille, eh?” The harbormaster whirls around in search of the Archbishop while Jean Luc swallows hard and clenches his jaw, still glaring at his feet. Behind him, Reid emerges from the watching crowd, his face tight and grave as he leads the harbormaster’s dog forward by a piece of rope. “Doubt he knows what you’re on about, does he? You can be sure I’ll be speaking to him too, and I’ll be demanding some sort of recompense. Justlookat my harbor. Backlogged, young’uns crying, chicken shit everywhere—”

“And forwhat?” The farmer actually pushes Jean Luc now, and Reid and I both step forward at the same time. When Reid clasps a hand on the man’s shoulder, scowling, the man laughs unpleasantly and spits at Jean Luc’s feet. “Because your little whore might be hiding in my crop?” He jerks away from Reid and kicks grain toward Charles, who still holds the crimson dress in his hands. “Oh, we all heard, didn’t we? We know all about her little tryst up north. My brother is friendly with one of your huntsmen, isn’t he? And it’s looking like she isn’t dead, after all. Wasn’t abducted either. It’s looking like she ran off with somecreatureinstead.”

I expel a pained breath as Jean Luc’s entire body stiffens.

“Mademoiselle Tremblay is wanted for questioning in a murder investigation,” Reid says quietly, handing the dog’s rope to Frederic. “She could provide much-needed evidence to identify and bring the killer to justice.” Stepping to stand beside Jean Luc, Reidaddresses the rest of the harbor, his voice louder now, strong and steady. “We apologize for the inconvenience, and we appreciate your cooperation in our efforts to locate Mademoiselle Tremblay, who—despite speculation—we still believe to have been abducted. She was last seen in Amandine fleeing a place called Les Abysses—”

“A brothel,” the farmer snarls.

“—and could soon be boarding a ship out of Cesarine,” Reid continues determinedly, ignoring the outburst of scandalized whispers. He looks to Jean Luc then, who nods tersely and squares his shoulders. Though Jean’s eyes remain tight, his breath rather shallow, his voice carries a newfound note of authority as he addresses the crowd.

“If this happens,” he says, “our chances of recovering Mademoiselle Tremblay vanish with the tide. We ask for your patience only a little longer as we try to protect an innocent woman from unspeakable evil.”

Recover.

Protect.

The words catch in my throat as the farmer spits again, the harbormaster scoffs, and Jean Luc ignores them both, turning away abruptly to catch the nearest chicken.Conversation finished.With a shake of his head, Reid trails after him, and—to my horror—the chicken runs directly toward the caskets as the Chasseurs and constabulary resume their search.

Holding my breath, I try to imitate Michal and melt into the shadows, infinitely grateful for his black cloak.

“Jean Luc, wait.” Reid breaks into a light jog to catch up to him, frightening the chicken—a fat little hen with a particularly shrillcluck—onto Michal’s and my casket. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Jean Luc lunges, swiping wildly, and misses the hen completely. “That cockhead farmer said it all, didn’t he? Célie is alive, and rumors place her at a magic brothel hundreds of miles from here. Not only as a patron,” he adds bitterly, “but also, it seems, as a worker.”

Reid approaches the hen cautiously. “We don’t know why she was there.”

“The witnesses’ reports were pretty clear, Reid.”

“Célie wouldn’t do that to you, Jean.”

My heart crashes to somewhere between my feet, shattering upon the cobblestones. I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. As before, these words are not meant for me, yet what can I do to escape them? Backing up as quietly as possible, I turn—determined to give them privacy, or perhaps to flee—and crash straight into Michal’s chest. His hands reach out to steady my arms, and fresh humiliation, freshshame, washes through me as I look into his cool expression. As I glance to where Odessa and Dimitri stand like statues in the alley behind, equally still and cold and silent. They can hear every word too. Iknowthey can, and I—I think I’m going to vomit all over Michal’s shoes again.

Because your little whore might be hiding in my crop?

It’s looking like she ran off with somecreature.

And then—on the wings of my shame—two words.

Recover.

Protect.

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