Page 79 of The Scarlet Veil

“I’d rather not be dead, yet here we are,” she snaps. “Did Michal not impress upon you the danger of this place? When we agreed you’d leave the isle, I assumed you meantalive.”

“Listen, Mila,” I say tersely, practically sprinting from her now. “Michal might be your brother, but this really doesn’t concern you. I can’t let him kill my friends, and I thought you of all people would understand that. Clearly, he wants to speak with you—and I could’ve translated—but you refused to see him earlier. It must’ve been for a reason.”

Angrier now, she streaks in front of me once more. “This isn’t about me and Michal. This is aboutyou.”Wrong answer.I skirt around her, clenching my jaw, but she merely follows like a bat out of Hell. “Vampireseatpeople, Célie. Just because my family has treated you with kindness”—I scoff aloud—“does not meanvampiresare kind. If you stumble across the wrong sort, even my brother will not be able to save you. Do you understandthat? Do you understand how unpleasant it is to die?”

“I can do this.” I lift my chin stubbornly. “Ihaveto do this.” Then—unable to keep the frustration from my voice— “Why do you even care? You don’t know me, and your brother plans to kill me in less than a fortnight. Clearly, you still feel some loyalty toward him, and—” Realization dawns swift and cruel and—andoh my God. “Is that it? Are you worried that my friends won’t arrive if I die before All Hallows’ Eve? That Michal will never get his vengeance?”

Mila’s eyes narrow once more. When she moves to stop me this time, she draws to her full height, looming over me with a look so cold and so familiar that I almost miss a step. “You really are a fool,” she says, every inch her brother, “if you think I’m here for vengeance.”

I skid to a halt to glare up at her. “Whyareyou here, then? To help your brother choose his next victims? To drag those poor souls to Hell?”

“My brother didn’t kill those creatures. You think him beyond absolution, but you’re wrong. Michal can still be saved. Iknowhe can.”

You think him beyond absolution.

No gift can absolve the things you’ve done.

D’Artagnan clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Were youeavesdroppingon us?” I ask indignantly, but when she opens her mouth to answer, I realize I don’t want an explanation. Mila was Michal’s sister—of course she thinks he deserves absolution; of course she doesn’t want to believe him capable ofsuch irrevocable evil. If the roles were reversed, I’d never believe it of Pippa either. But—no. I don’t have time for this. Odessa could arrive at any moment.

Lifting the silver stake, I say decisively, “Let me be clear. Even if itwerepossible—which it isn’t—I would never help you absolve Michal. If I could, I would drive this silver straight into his chest to rid the world of his black heart.”

“My brother’s heart is many things,” she says vehemently, “but black it is not.”

But I refuse to tolerate Milaorher brother for another second. With a vicious, instinctive push, I thrust out with my anger, feeling righteous—feelingvindicated—for the first time in ages. Feeling like perhaps Icoulddrive this silver into Michal’s chest if he appeared. Mila’s mouth parts in shock as the veil splits in a swift, brutal cut behind me, and I leap through it, away from her, seizing the edges and forcing them back together again.

Eyes widening, she bolts forward two seconds too late. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Mila. I wish we could be friends.”

She shakes her head—tries to force a hand through—but the veil repairs itself at rapid speed now, stoked by the fire in my chest. “Don’t do this, Célie,please—”

“Leave.”

With a final, ruthless swipe, I force the veil to close completely, leaving the path to the aviary clear. I take another deep, steadying breath—tamping down on my guilt—and inhale warmer air before striding toward the aviary. To my inexplicable relief, D’Artagnan follows.

“Loath as I am to admit it,” he murmurs, “that went... well.”

“You didn’t tell me you could see ghosts.”

“You didn’t tell me you could either.”

Heavy silence descends as we step through the door together.

Unlike the aviary in Cesarine, this one isn’t built like an enormous cage. No. It’s built like a rook, tall and narrow and slightly crooked, with a concave ceiling and stone walls. A peculiar smell fills the place—one I can’t quite place—but it probably belongs to the birds. And there arehundredsof birds: hawks and owls and pigeons and ravens, each face illuminated by the basin of fire in the middle of the room. Some of them blink at us within cages, while others perch along the rickety staircase that circles the walls to the top of the structure. Above us, chains rattle faintly before falling silent.

I peer at the dark ceiling cautiously. Though the firelight doesn’t reach the top of the aviary, I assume the keeper tethers his deadliest birds up there, away from the others. Already, my fingers itch to set them all free. The cages, the chains—they’ve always seemed particularly cruel for creatures with wings.

Unfortunately, I can only release one tonight.

Quietly, I follow D’Artagnan up the stairs, searching for a larger bird to make the voyage across the sea. Even D’Artagnan seems reluctant to speak in this place. Crude windows pock the walls the higher we climb, and a leak trickles from somewhere overhead. Its steadydrip, drip, dripjoins the soft flutter of wings, the gentle crackle of fire.

A sharp, suddencaw!from above nearly stops my heart. D’Artagnan hisses, darting up the stairs and out of sight as my face snaps toward the sound. The three-eyed crow from the market peers back at me in a cage near the shadowy ceiling. Tilting itshead inquisitively, it ruffles its feathers and hops from foot to foot.Odd.I frown and start toward it, whispering, “How did you get up there? I thought you were someone’s pet.”

Voice low, D’Artagnan says, “Should I be insulted you think the bird will speak?”

“Why shouldn’t it? You certainly never stop.”

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