Page 14 of The Scarlet Veil

My frown deepens, and instinctively, I slip a hand inside my cloak to toy with the emerald ribbon at my wrist. The ends have begun to fray. “I—I’m afraid I still don’t understand. I’ve chosen my future, Your Eminence. I am a Chasseur.”

“Hmm.” He wraps his robes tighter around his gaunt frame,scowling at the sky in displeasure. His knees ache when it rains. “And is that what you really want? To be a Chasseur?”

“Ofcourseit is. I—I want to serve, to protect, to help make the kingdom a better place. I took avow—”

“Not every choice is a forever one.”

“What are you saying?” I take an incredulous step away from him. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be here? That I don’tfit?”

He harrumphs and turns back toward the doors, abruptly disgruntled once more. “I’m saying you fit if you want to fit, but if youdon’twant to fit, well—don’t let us steal your future.” He glances over his shoulder, limping back into the foyer to escape the chill. “You aren’t a fool. Your happiness matters just as much as Jean Luc’s.”

I expel a harsh breath.

“Oh, and”—he waves a gnarled hand, heedless—“if you’re going to the cemetery, stop at le fleuriste first. Helene put together fresh bouquets for the graves of the fallen. Take one to Filippa too.”

Dark crimson roses spill from my cart as I arrive at the cemetery beyond Saint-Cécile. An enormous wrought iron gate encircles the property, its black spires piercing heavy clouds. The gates part wide this afternoon, but the effect is far from welcoming. No. It feels like walking into teeth.

A familiar chill sweeps my spine as I coax my horse along the cobblestone path.

When Cosette Monvoisin’s Hellfire destroyed the old cemetery last year—and the catacombs of the privileged and wealthy below—the aristocracy had no choice but to erect new headstones for their loved ones here. That included Filippa. Despitemy father’s vehement protests—imagine,hisdaughter forced to lie beside peasants for eternity—our ancestral tomb burned with all the rest. “She isn’t really here,” I reminded my mother, who wept for days. “Her soul is gone.”

And now, so is her body.

Still, this new land—though hallowed by Florin Cardinal Clément himself—it feelsangry.

It feels... hungry.

“Shhh.” I lean forward to comfort my horse, Cabot, who snorts and tosses his great head in agitation. He hates coming here. I hate bringing him. If not for Filippa, I would never step foot among the dead again. “We’re almost there.”

Near the back of the cemetery, rows upon eerie rows of headstones rise from the earth like fingers. They grasp at my horse’s hooves, my cart’s wheels, as I swing from the saddle and walk alongside Cabot, placing a bouquet of roses atop each. One grave—and one bouquet—for each person who fell during the Battle of Cesarine. At Father Achille’s command, we bring fresh flowers each week. To honor them, he says, but I can’t help but feel the real reason is to pacify them.

It’s a silly notion, of course. Like Filippa, these people are no longerhere, and yet...

That chill creeps down my spine again.

Like I’m being watched.

“Mariée...”

The word, spoken so softly I might’ve imagined it, drifts with the wind, and I lurch to a halt, whipping my head around wildly with a sickening sense of déjà vu.Please, God, no.Not again.

I’ve heard that word before.

Shuddering, I quicken my step and ignore the sudden pressure in my temples. Because Ididimagine it—of course I did—and this ispreciselywhy I avoid cemeteries. These voices in my head aren’t real. They’veneverbeen real, and my mind is playing tricks on me again, just like in Filippa’s casket. The voices weren’t real then either.

They aren’t real.

I repeat the words until I almost believe them, counting each bouquet until I almost forget.

When I finally reach Pippa’s grave, I crouch beside it and rest my cheek against the elaborate stone. It feels just as cold as the rest of them, however. Just as damp. Already, moss has crept along its arched edges, obscuring the simple words there:Filippa Allouette Tremblay, beloved daughter and sister.I peel the moss away to trace the letters of her name over and over again—because she was so much more than beloved, and now we speak of her in past tense. Now she haunts my nightmares. “I miss you, Pip,” I whisper, closing my eyes and shivering. And I want to mean it. I want itdesperately.

I want to ask her what to do—about Jean Luc, about Frederic, about romance and marriage and crippling disappointment. I want to ask her about her dreams. Did she love the boy she visited at night? Did he love her? Did they envision a life together, the two of them—an illicit life, athrillingone—before Morgane took her?

Did she ever change her mind?

She never told me, and then she was gone, leaving me with a half-drawn picture of herself. Leaving me with half of her smile, half of her secrets. Half of her face.

Gently, I lay the roses at her feet, turning away with deliberate calm. I will not flee. I will not scream. My sister is still mysister, regardless of how Morgane desecrated her, of how Morgane desecratedme. I breathe deeply, stroking Cabot’s face, and nod to myself—I will return to Chasseur Tower, and I will continue alphabetizing the council library. I will eat a mediocre meal with Jean Luc and our brethren this evening, and I will relish the meat pie and boiled potatoes, the blue wool and heavy Balisarda. “I can carry it,” I tell Cabot, placing a kiss on his nose. “I can do this.”

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