Page 109 of The Scarlet Veil

I sigh in resignation.Of courseshe knows who I am. My chances of discovery climb steadily higher.

“The Chasseurs came to Les Abysses?” Michal asks sharply.

Pennelope scoffs. “They certainly tried—on a tip-off fromyourfriends, I might add,” she snarls at me, “but you know Eponine. She saw the pricks coming, and everyone vacated the premises before they arrived. Everyone except me.” She lifts her chin with pride. With defiance. “I stayed, and I answered their questions because no one—no one—wants vengeance on the bastard who hurt Babette more than I do. She and Sylvie are like sisters to me, and I’ll gut anyone who ever harmed them.”

“Sylvie?”

Pennelope looks away quickly, cursing the slip under her breath. “Babette’s little sister.”

I frown at the revelation. “I didn’t know Babette had a sister.”

“Perhaps you don’t know Babette as well as you think you do.”

“Where can we find her?” A drunken melusine stumbles into Michal, who shunts him away without blinking. “Sylvie?”

A mixture of triumph and heartache creeps into Pennelope’s eyes. “You can’t. Sylvie died three months ago.” Before we can ask, she adds tersely, “Blood sickness.”

Oh.

I’ve heard of blood sickness only once before—it took the life of a little boy named Matthieu, whose death twisted his mother into one of the most evil creatures alive. She died in the Battle of Cesarine with her mistress, La Voisin, otherwise known as Coco’s aunt, who once ruled the Dames Rouges with an iron fist. “I’m so sorry, Pennelope,” I say quietly. “To have lost both of your cousins in such a short—”

But Pennelope jerks as if I’ve struck her. “We don’t need yourpity.”

“Of course you don’t.” Frown deepening, I lift my hands in a placating gesture. Though my heart aches for her, we’ll need to take a more direct approach if Pennelope refuses to cooperate. I shudder to think of what Michal might do otherwise. “Is there somewhere more private we can talk? Somewhere more comfortable?” Nudging aside the pouf at my feet, I inspect the floor beneath it as surreptitiously as possible. Perhaps their chambers lie below, and pillows cleverly hide any door. Except—I bite back a groan of frustration. There are no doors here either. “Jermaine is in your bedchamber, but perhaps we can retire to Babette’s?” A careful pause. “Have you cleaned out her rooms yet?”

“That’s none of your business, pig.”

My brow furrows at the slur. Given the situation, an emotional outburst is perfectly understandable, but this one also feels... exaggerated, somehow. Overwrought. She didn’t seem to have a problem with Michalorme until we mentioned Babette, and she would’ve known my connection to the Chasseurs right away. “There’s no need for hostility, Pennelope. We’re just trying to help. If you could answer our—”

“I already told you everything there is to know.” She speaks with a sharp, cutting air of finality, her voice just shy of drawing blood. “Are we finished here? Jermaine likes waiting even less than sharing. Who knowswhathe might do if I leave him alone for much longer?” A forbidding smile. “And we all know how much Eponine abhors violence—blood never really lifts from the furniture, does it?”

“White vinegar does the trick.” Far from being deterred, Michal continues to study her, clasping his hands behind his back and refusing to move. Though casual, his body has gone completelystill again. “I presume the huntsmen searched the premises during their interrogation?”

Pennelope scoffs as if unimpressed. “Of course they did.”

“All of it?”

“Everything.” She sweeps her arms to encompass the entire room, glaring directly into Michal’s eyes for emphasis. Almosttoomuch emphasis. “They found nothing of interest. Now—this conversation is over, and I am leaving.” She charges toward the stairs but halts just before ascending. Her lip curls. “And Eponinewillbe hearing about this, nightwalker. I hope you like to swim.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

And a Long Grudge

We stare after her for a beat of silence. Then—

“What wasthat?” I whirl to face him incredulously. “Are you completely without sense? The entirepointof this exercise was to seek her help, to commiserate with her and to charm her, to applygentlepressure if all else failed—”

He rolls his eyes and steps around me. “We’re investigating a killer, Célie, not asking him over for tea.”

“And now?” Storming after him through the pit, I nearly step on his heel—then Idostep on his heel, and he growls, turning with lethal speed and sweeping me into his arms once more. Perfect. All the better to poke him right in his idiotic chest, which I proceed to do. Most vehemently. “What now, O Ruthless One? Eponine sent us to Pennelope for a reason, and because ofyou, she and Jermaine are probably plotting our painful and untimely ends at this very second.” I poke him again. Then again for good measure. “Well?”

He glares down at me as we climb the stairs. “Wellwhat?”

“What did you hope to accomplish by bullying her that way? What did we gain?”

“Much more than you think,” he says coolly, “O Brilliant One.”

“I’m wounded, truly”—I clutch my chest in feigned injury—“but as the courtesans have hidden their rooms, I doubt we’ll beable to just stroll into Babette’s without permission, let alone conduct a thorough search of it. We needed Pennelope for that too.”

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