Page 155 of The Scarlet Veil

When I wake, I see the world through a haze of bloody scarlet.

It tinges everything—the glass coffin above me, the cavern walls beyond, the witchlight I still clutch in my hand. Though my fingers twitch around it, they feel heavier than usual, clumsier. Just like my thoughts. It takes several muddled seconds for me to remember what happened.

Filippa.

Frederic.

Michal and Babette and her—

My heart gives a slow, painfultha-thump.

Her injection.

Oh God.Though the hemlock still runs thick through my veins—I can almostfeelit congealing—I force my head to turn anyway, force myself to blink, to focus on the scene around me. My hands spasm with the effort.

Someone has changed my nightgown into an ensemble of opulent scarlet lace. The matching veil is what obscures my vision now. With tremendous effort, I lift it from my eyes, pull it off and away from my hair, but the movement costs me. Weakened, my arm falls back to my side, and I’m forced to stare—defeated—into the empty face of my sister. She still lies in the glass coffin beside mine. Beyond her, Frederic sits in a lifeboat with that samesmeared eye drawn on the hull; he pores over the grimoire as the boat bobs gently with the waves. An empty bowl and wickedly sharp carving knife sit beside him, while his Chasseur coat and Balisarda lie forgotten at his feet. Discarded. My heart pounds furiously at the sight of them. They were only ever a disguise, anyway. A ruse.

Come now, he once told me.Does it not feel like you’re playing dress-up?

Adrenaline pours through me in a great wave of humiliation and fury.

Frederic is the Necromancer.

In my wildest dreams, I never would’ve thought it possible—not with all his talk ofhonoring the causeandreforming the brotherhood, but of course—my stomach clenches viciously—a Balisarda positioned him in a way nothing else could. With it, he gained access not only to Chasseur Tower but also to information about every creature in the kingdom. He would’ve needed that access to begin his... experiments, and if his purpose was always to resurrect Filippa, what better way to start than by earning the trust of his enemies? Hewasthe one who found the first body, after all. In Babette’s own words, the circumstances were just too neat. Too perfect.

And I... I’ve been so oblivious.

My heart continues to pump the hemlock through my body in a treacherous, brutal rhythm, but instead of further weakening me, my limbs seem to be growing stronger. Blood rushes through my ears. He probably plans tofindmy body too, identical to the others, and present it to Jean Luc before weeping alongside him at my funeral. Closed casket, of course. Just like Filippa’s.

I’ll never let the witches get you. Never.

My vision tunnels on his profile, and I push against the coffin lid as quietly as possible. It doesn’t budge. I try again, harder this time, but the glass remains fixed all around me, resolute.Magic, I realize bitterly. He used the same to lure me here, to render himself and Babette andeverythinginvisible. My eyes dart to the grimoire in his hands.

“Where is Babette?”

Even to my own ears, my voice rings out surprisingly strong, and Frederic lifts his head in surprise. “Well, well,” he says, clearly impressed that my body has worked through the hemlock. “The princess woke much sooner than expected. Makes this rather more difficult, but if you prefer to be awake...”

He shrugs, snapping the grimoire shut before lifting his sleeve. A fresh cut already glistens upon his forearm, and he dips his finger into the blood there before painting the same uncanny eye onto the grimoire’s cover. When he slashes a line through it, the grimoire vanishes instantly. Invisible.

“Babette,” I repeat, now clutching the witchlight so hard it almost gores my palm. “Where is she?”

“With any luck, she’ll be distracting your friends. I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much, though. You’ll be dead before they arrive.” He bends to retrieve the bowl and carving knife, glancing up briefly in between. “I hope you’re comfortable. I had to work with what was already on the island.” A small smile. “Pip told me you needed four pillows to even close your eyes at night. A coffin pales in comparison, I’m sure.”

My eyes narrow at the bizarre nostalgia in his voice. “Now that you mention it, Iwouldmuch rather be standing, perhaps even inmy own clothes, but someone has poisoned me.”

“Ah.” He has the decency to look vaguely rueful then, but even so, such a reaction from a murderer brings little comfort—and it makes even less sense. Judging by thecarving knifein his hand, he hasn’t experienced a sudden change of heart. “I can assure you, at least, thatIwas not the one who changed your clothes—though I did pick out the gown.”

He says the words as if this is a gift. As if every young woman dreams of wearing such a beautiful and lavish gown on her deathbed. Oblivious, he leans back down for his rucksack, extracting a whetstone from its depths and dipping it into the sea.

I watch, nonplussed, as he sharpens the edge of his carving knife, wracking my thoughts for anything that could dissuade him from thismadness. Because this Frederic—he seems different from the Frederic I knew in Chasseur Tower. Affectionate, somehow—almost exasperated—like he truly considers himself my older brother. Perhaps I can talk him out of everything. “Babette said you only used a drop of my blood on Tears Like Stars,” I say quickly. “Surely you don’t need tokillme.”

“You always did do your research. Our preciouscaptainnever realized just how valuable that mind of yours could be.” He steps from the boat with an appreciative chuckle. “I never liked you with that asshole either. You were always too good for him.”

I stare at him incredulously. If I could leap from this coffin and drive that knife into his chest, I would. “You assaulted me in the training yard.”

“And I apologize for that—but really, Célie, what were you doing with the Chasseurs? Did your sister not explain howdespicablethey are?” He shakes his head, and all benevolence in hisexpression hardens into the Frederic I’ve always known. His lip curls. “Time and time again I tried to prove you didn’t belong, and time and time again, you resisted. It makes sense, I suppose”—he glances at the dark cavern around us—“based on the company you now keep.”

All instinct to rationalize with him withers at that. “You’ve killed six creatures.”

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