Page 156 of The Scarlet Veil

“And I’d kill a dozen more—a hundred, athousand—to resurrect your sister. Which is why,” he says fiercely, drawing to a halt beside Filippa’s coffin, “she’ll receiveallof your blood instead of a drop. As I’m sure you know from your little romp in Les Abysses, the spell calls only forBlood of Death. Not very specific, that, and I don’t think we should take any risks. Do you?”

Cold creeps down my spine, and this time, it isn’t the hemlock. The way he speaks, the way hecaressesthe glass over Filippa’s face—Frederic isn’t affectionate at all; Frederic istwisted, and no amount of reason will sway him from his course. Bile rises in my throat. He sewed someone else’sskinonto Filippa’s face, for Christ’s sake, and he threatened to harvest my eye after he exsanguinates me. Crushing the witchlight in my hand, I smash it against the glass with a snarl. It doesn’t break. Doesn’t evencrack. “My sister wouldn’t want this,” I spit at him.

“I’ve always found it better to ask forgiveness than permission.” After lifting the lid from Filippa’s coffin, he brushes his knuckles tenderly down the stitches on her cheek. When he speaks again, however, his voice holds no warmth, no devotion, instead dripping with slow-acting venom. It builds with each word. “Do you think she would’vewantedMorgane to abduct her that night? To torture and maim her? Do you think—if she stood here now—she wouldchoose death in order to let you live?”

Though I open my mouth to answer—to snarl at him—I close it again at once, the witchlight slipping in my hand. Because Idon’tknow what Filippa would choose if she were here. Not truly. I don’t know if she would give her life for mine, if such sacrifice is ever fair to ask of another. Even of a sister.

At twelve years old, she swore to protect me, but the promises of children are not the realities of adults.

Frederic glances up at me then, his dark eyes liquid with animosity. “You were never as naive as you pretended to be, ma belle. Even now, you know the answer—even now, you choose your life over hers—but it should’ve been you all along.” His hands tighten protectively on Filippa’s shoulders. “It should’ve beenyouwho Morgane punished,youwho Morgane killed. It wasyou, after all, who fell in love with a huntsman, and it was your beloved father who pilfered witches’ wares. Filippa did nothing—nothing—to deserve her fate,” he snarls, “and if I have to carve out your heart myself, I will reverse it. Iwillbring her back.”

Even now, you choose your life over hers.

Frederic won’t need a knife to carve out my heart. His words slide between my ribs, sharper than any blade, and impale me until I might bleed to death after all. My gaze darts back to her beautiful, ruined face. Did she truly blame me as Frederic does? In her final moments, did she wish I could take her place? Would she wish it now?

No.

I thrash my head against the thought. Frederic already slipped inside my mind once—more than once, if I’m honest with myself—and if I let him, he’ll hack the memory of my sister intopieces. He’ll sew her back together again as something gruesome and dark, just like he did to her body.

Bowing his head now, Frederic smooths Filippa’s hair, adjusts the collar of her simple white dress. The silver cross gleams bright and silver and perfect around her neck once more. Pressure builds behind my eyes as I stare at it—because it should’ve been there all along. It should’ve never left. Frederic should’ve mourned my sister with the rest of us, and he should’ve buried her with it. When I speak again, my voice cuts with accusation. “You gave her necklace to Babette. You carved over her initials.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “As a show of good faith and protection—Babette’s leverage, if you will. It never truly belonged to her, and she never should’ve staged it with her body.”

“Why stage her body at all? Did youwantme to find her?”

“Of course we did.” He scoffs. “Jean Luc suspected a Dame Rouge of the killings. How else could we put him and your precious brethren off our scent? A blood witch needed to die, and Babette needed to disappear in order to continue our work.”

He lapses into silence then, smoothing the torso of Filippa’s gown.Preparing her, I realize with a sickening swoop of my own stomach. I can’t let him do this to her. Tous. Gritting my teeth against a fresh wave of pain, I slip through the veil to check for Mila, for Guinevere, for anyone who could possibly help me. No ghosts linger in the grotto, however, and I fall back through the veil in blind panic, impossibly alone.

Instinctively, I reach for my throat—desperate to feel that small piece of Filippa, of family and hope—but there is only the slender weight of Michal’s silver ribbon.

Michal.

Those knives in my heart slip deeper as I glance back toward the water.

A week ago, I would’ve prayed for a miracle. I would’ve prayed that somehow, someway, Frederic’s Balisarda didn’t actually reach Michal’s heart. I would’ve prayed for him to leap from the water unscathed, cold and imperious once more. I stifle a whimper. Because now I cannot even pray for those things, cannot survive the disappointment when the heavens refuse to listen. Even if I survive, this fairy tale will never have a happy ending—and all because I wouldn’t listen. Because I forced him to follow me into the abyss, and because I couldn’t save him when he did.

I couldn’t even save myself.

If Michal isn’t already dead, he will be soon. And who knows if Frederic and Babette will spare the others.

This is my fault.Allmy fault.

My breath grows faster, harsher, with each thought, and darkness threatens my vision. Though tears prick at my eyes, I shake my head viciously against them. I can’t succumb to panic now. I can’t let it overtake me. If I do, Frederic will never get his chance—I’ll die before his knife ever touches me.

No.I search blindly for something—anything—to pull me from the brink. Because there has to be hope somewhere. There isalwayshope. Lou taught me that, and Coco, and Jean Luc, and Ansel and Reid.

And Michal.

His name blisters in my chest, warming me like the first embers of a fire. It shouldn’t, of course. He shouldn’t make me feel this way, but—I have lived, thrived, in a vampiric king’s castle for weeks. I have walked among monsters, danced with ghosts, andcome to know them as so much more.Thatis the true reality of the world. Ofmyworld. A ghost can be selfless, as kind and caring as any other, and a vampire can embrace you in a coffin. He can stroke your hair and whisper thatyouare worth more too. And sisters...

Sisters can love each other truly and eternally, even if they have their differences.

The thought lands like a blow to my abdomen.

Filippa wouldn’t have chosen herself if it meant sacrificing me.

Conjuring thoughts of her, ofeveryone, I raise my hand and smash the witchlight into the glass. It still refuses to crack, but something shifts in the darkness far above my head, just beyond the ring of light. A flash of wing. A beady eye.

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