Page 136 of The Scarlet Veil

“Cabbage and butter,” Michal repeats.

Nodding, I nearly moan at the first bite, and his eyes flick to the half-healed wound on my throat. Abruptly, he sits in the chair opposite me. “Odessa said you spoke with him.”

“Good newsdoestravel fast.”

“Am I correct in assuming you believed his story? You think him innocent?”

I snatch a crepe from the top of a teetering stack. “I would hardly call himinnocent, but yes, I no longer think Dimitri is the Necromancer.”

Though my chest tightens with the admission, I refuse to acknowledge it, focusing instead on the magnificent spread of food before me, adding several slices of apple and fromage blanc to my plate. Michal tracks each movement with sharp interest.Toosharp. I know what he’s thinking, of course. Without Dimitri as a suspect, we have only two persons of interest left to investigate: Coco andnow Filippa. With the masquerade tomorrow night, Coco would certainly be the easiest bread trail to follow, yet if Coco Monvoisin knew anything about the Necromancer—especiallyafter his grooming of Babette—he would already be dead.

Filippa’s cross continues to tighten around my neck.

I spoon an enormous bite of strawberry jam into my mouth anyway, delaying the inevitable. Then, swallowing hard— “We should return to Les Abysses.”

Michal pushes a loaf of brioche across the table before pouring coffee into a crystal goblet. This too he slides casually toward me. “Babette has gone to ground, most likely with the Necromancer himself. No one has seen or heard from her since she fled.”

“But Pennelope—”

“—has vanished with the whole of Eden. The building now stands empty and abandoned, swept of everything but dust.” A pause as he watches me inhale the coffee. “I knew Eponine wouldn’t linger after our unfortunate encounter with Babette. Despite her threats, she fears vampires too much to risk my wrath—or that of the Necromancer. I’m sure he wasn’t pleased with the proceedings either.”

“Oh.” I nod with a horrible sinking sensation and try not to grimace. The coffee tastes abruptly bitter in my mouth. “That—thatisrather unfortunate.”

“Indeed.”

We lapse into silence except for the sound of my fork against the plate. It grows harsher with each passing moment—louder,grating—until I can no longer pretend to poke at my eggs in good conscience. “Finished?” Michal asks softly.

I nod without speaking, without looking at him either, andinstead stare out at the mica-flecked walls of his grotto. The tide must have retreated at some point during the night; a stone islet now sparkles in the center of the cavern, too small and too distant to see properly. “It’s only visible during low tide,” Michal murmurs, following my gaze. “Mila would always drag Dimitri, Odessa, and me out there for garden parties on special occasions—she’d pick bouquets of flowers and bring bottles of blood spiked with champagne. She insisted Dimitri and I wear lace cuffs.”

I can hear the smile in his voice just as clearly as I can envision the scene in his memory: a quartet of ethereal vampires rowing out to sea by moonlight, each carrying a basket of roses and a bottle of blood. “That sounds... lovely,” I say at last. And it’s true. A vampire garden party sounds like a page torn straight from a fairy tale, and I—I don’t know what that says about me.

I need to tell him about Filippa’s note.

I need to tell him about the matching handwriting, need to form some sort of plan in case the Necromancer strikes again. Twisting my napkin in my lap, taking a deep breath, I say, “Michal—”

“Come here.”

Startled, I look up to find Michal no longer sitting at the table at all, but standing still and silent beside his bed. Atop the coverlet rests an inky black garment box tied with an emerald bow. Golden letters stamped across the front wink BOUTIQUE DE VÊTEMENTS DE M. MARC in the candlelight. I rise tentatively to my feet. “Is that my costume for All Hallows’ Eve?”

“Monsieur Marc delivered it about an hour ago, along with his regards.” He clears his throat again, and unless I’m much mistaken, he seems almost...nervousnow. But that can’t be right; this is Michal, and if the king of the vampires has ever felt even atwingeof uncertainty, I’ll marry Guinevere. “I requested a handful of alterations to the original gown,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I... hope you like them.”

Curiosity piqued despite myself, I stride forward and pluck at the emerald ribbon. “What was wrong with the original gown? You don’t like butterflies?”

“On the contrary.”

“Then what did you—?” The answer, however, renders me momentarily mute as I lift the lid from the box and brush aside black tissue paper. “Oh my God,” I whisper.

Instead of the emerald swallowtail gown as promised, Monsieur Marc has sewn a gown of bright, resplendent silver. Even folded within the box, the gossamer seems to ebb and flow like water, and when I pick it up—incredulous, awestruck—the skirt spills forth to reveal thousands of intricate diamonds sewn into each pleat. My heart climbs into my throat. Those diamonds will catch the light of every candle in the ballroom when I walk, and thetrain—cathedral length, at least, and divided in half to resemble two butterfly wings that attach at the wrist to sheer sleeves.

A capelet of diamonds—larger than those on the skirt but equally flawless—completes the ensemble.

It takes several attempts to form speech. “I can’t— This is the most— How did he—?”

Watching me splutter, Michal’s face relaxes slightly, and the corners of his mouth pull into a smile. “Un papillon.” From his pocket, he extracts a silk handkerchief and carefully moves the capelet aside to reveal a half mask embroidered with delicate organza wings. He takes care not to touch anything with his bare skin. “Though I think I might’ve stretched the definition when Iasked Monsieur Marc to create one from metal.”

My hands slide longingly over the fabric as I tuck it back inside the box. I can’t accept such a gift. Of course I can’t. The words that leave my mouth, however, are quite different. “He sewed this with real silver?How?”

Michal shrugs, his smile stretching wider, and my hands fumble a bit with the lid of the box in response. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him smile before—at least, not like this. Openly. Artlessly. It softens his entire face, smoothing his cruel features into something almost human... and making him, impossibly, more beautiful because of it. “Hewould tell you that he spun straw into gold. Really, though, he owed me a favor, and he likes you enough to don gloves.”

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