Page 105 of The Scarlet Veil

It makes me feel faint.

When I stumble, Michal catches me, pulls me across the room toward a courtesan who arches in the lap of a loup garou, his form caught halfway between man and wolf. His eyes gleam yellow. His teeth glint sharp. Though they aren’t quite in theact—at least, I don’t think they are—they still seem to be enjoying themselves. “Do you want to wait outside?” Michal asks, and histhumb—he slides it up my wrist to soothe my rapid pulse. “Eponine gave you her blessing. She won’t bother you again.”

“No.” I shake my head fervently and pull away. “No, I have to do this. Iwantto do this.” Then, because I cannot help it— “Does Eponine own this place?”

“She is its mistress, yes.”

“And Paradise?”

“She presides over it too.”

“What’s it like up there?”

He gestures around us. “Much like this. The courtesans wear white instead of red, and a choir of melusines puts all who enter into a sort of trance.” He pauses. “I confess, I’ve only visited Paradise once. It... felt much like a dream.”

It felt much like a dream.

A dream is exactly what this entire night has felt like.

When I fall silent, Michal sinks into a nearby settee, spreading an arm along its camel back while I stand awkwardly beside him. Unbidden, I glance toward the werewolf and courtesan. This must be Pennelope. She shares her cousin’s heart-shaped face and golden hair, her scarred and ivory skin. And the way shemoves... a heavy weight settles in my chest as I watch her. I could never hope to move like that.

I force myself to look away, to give them privacy. As the violet-eyed courtesan above pointed out, she seems... somewhat preoccupied at the moment, and quite unable to answer our questions. Perhaps we should’ve made an appointment. Who knows how long they might take to—to finish? Michal seems prepared to wait, but as he said, daybreak rapidly approaches. Could I just... tap her on the shoulder? I shift from foot to foot, considering my options. Perhaps I can simply clear my throat, and the two will magically break apart.

Voice casual, Michal says, “It isn’t a dirty word, you know.”

“What word?” I ask distractedly.

“Virgin.” He arches a brow at me. “No one here cares one way or another, so you needn’t whisper it like a curse.”

My mouth falls open in shock, in mortification, and my hands curl to fists at my sides. Just like that, I quite forget about Pennelopeand her companion undulating behind us. “I never should’ve told you that. I neverwould’vetold you that if I’d known you’d want to—todiscussit.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” He tilts his head curiously. “Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about sex?”

“And if it does? Will you cease this conversation?”

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question, pet.”

“I am not yourpet, and it’s ruder to continue addressing me as such.”

He studies me with rapt interest. “Do friends not take sobriquets? If I recall correctly, you called my dear cousinDima.”

“You cannot be serious.” I stare at him in disbelief—both that he remembered theonetime I shortened Dimitri’s name and that he could ever, even in the warped depths of his mind, considerpetas a term of endearment. “You are not my friend, Michal Vasiliev.”

He arches a brow. “No?”

“No,” I say emphatically. “That you would eventhinkof friendship while you plan to maim and murder my loved ones proves you are quite incapable of it.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Every relationship has problems.”

“Problems?You kidnapped me. You blackmailed me.” Indignant, I lift a finger for each offense. “You locked me in a room, and you goaded me into summoning ghosts. Only a few moments ago, you revealed aprophecyin which—”

Before I can finish, however, a square-jawed gentleman approaches us—no, approachesme—and extends a broad hand. The sharp bite of incense, of magic, trails in his wake. “Hello,” he purrs without preamble, kissing my fingers. “May I have your name, humaine?”

I stiffen at the word, abruptly and painfully aware that I’m not supposed to be here—and that my face and name litter the street outside. Cursing myself for forgetting my cloak, for wearing this silly dress, I duck my head. “Fleur,” I say, pulling my hand from his as politely as possible. “My name is Fleur... Toussaint.”

I cringe internally at the slip.

“Toussaint?” The witch furrows his brow, trying to place the name, before brushing it aside and inhaling deeply. A wide, unctuous smile spreads across his face at my scent.Humaine. “Might we spend some time together this morning, Mademoiselle Toussaint? I am... eager to know you better.”

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