Page 151 of The Scarlet Veil

“You should rest.” Coco also rises, gathering our cups and setting them on the mantel, stifling a yawn of her own. “If the Necromancer shows his face tonight, I will personally carve it to ribbons.”

Lou waves her hand, and the window shuts once more, the shutters snapping back into place. They lock with a series of comforting clicks. Then she leaps up and pulls a carpet bag from beneath her chair, extracting a supple piece of leather from within. With a wink, she hands it to me. “Just in case.”

“What... is it?”

“It’s a thigh sheath, Célie. Everyone should have one.”

Coco chuckles. “Here we go.”

“I refuse to apologize. Show me a person who lookslessattractive in a thigh sheath, and we’ll talk.” Settling back into her chair, she motions toward the bed. “You two go on. Talon and I will keep first watch.”

Pulling the blankets over her head, Coco falls asleep almost immediately, but—despite my exhaustion—I lie awake for a long while. Long enough to watch Lou’s head eventually droop, to watch the book in her hand slide to the rug. Long enough to watch the fire in the hearth burn down to embers. Talon’s eyes, however, remain bright and sharp in the firelight.

They would’ve killed you, Célie.

I roll over to my side, restless and shivering. Each time I close my eyes, the image of Priscille’s face flashes through my subconscious, and the sound of her screams echoes as the vampires tearher limb from limb. Filippa’s locket presses into my throat as I turn again, burrowing deeper under the blankets. Trying to forget. Part of me wonders where the Necromancer is right this very moment, while another dreads ever leaving this room.

Dread.

That’s what this is.

Rolling toward the fireplace, I slip through the veil on pure instinct, and—just as I hoped—Mila sits in the chair opposite Lou. Though I say nothing, she seems to sense my presence; eyes unusually strained, grave, she looks at me and says, “Your friends are right, you know. The vampires wouldn’t have stopped until they killed you.”

Unwilling to wake Lou and Coco, I nod.

“Go to sleep, Célie.” With a mournful smile, Mila drifts to where Talon perches by the tea set. “You look like death.”

As if waiting for permission all along, I slip into fitful sleep.

That night, I dream of roses—dozens of them covered in frost, each petal slowly turning blue. My breath, too, condenses into little clouds of snow as I swing the picnic basket from my elbow, descending the stone steps to Michal’s bedroom. Inside the lovely wicker, ice creeps up the glass of two bottles. It paints their faces white, opaque, and crystallizes the scarlet liquid within. Plucking a rose from the basket, I tuck the dying flower into my hair.

I must look my best for the garden party.

A peculiar white light shines from the islet in the middle of the grotto, sparkling upon the dark water, the specks of mica in the cavern walls. At the sight of it, I feel a gentle tug behind my navel, and I cannot help but drift closer, each footstep leaving splinteredice upon the ground. Michal never mentioned witchlight in the fairy tale.

Perhaps he already waits for me there.

When something shifts behind me, I glance toward the bed in the center of the room. A pale figure twists and turns within it, his breathing short and fitful, as the muted emerald blanket tangles around his hips. I tilt my head, curious. Because I’ve never seen Michal sleep before. I never realized vampirescouldsleep, but of course, if they can breathe, if they caneat, it makes sense they can also dream. Ignoring the insistent pull in my stomach, I clutch the basket to my chest and creep closer—except the basket has vanished, and the roses, and the blood, leaving me to clutch at thin air instead. I stare down at my palms in confusion.Odd.

Michal soon fists the sheet in his hand, however, and rolls toward me with a muttered, “Célie.”

I startle at the sound—tearing my gaze from my own hands—to find him clenching his eyes shut as if in pain. Though the bite marks at his throat have healed, smoothing into perfect alabaster, his breath remains shallow. His body tense. As earlier, he wears no shirt, baring the whole of his chest, his shoulders, his back.

And he is beautiful.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at him,achingfor him, yet here—in this strange dreamland—I can finally admit that I’ll never look enough. I’ll never drink my fill of this man, and part of me will always wonder. Part of me will always mourn.

Part of me will always miss him.

When I brush a lock of hair from his forehead, he shudders, and tiny crystals of ice appear where I touch his skin. Turning away, I sigh, and snowflakes drift upon the air. The pull in my stomachgrows more insistent now, almost impatient, as I approach the shore once more. The light on the islet still sparkles innocently, and the longer I look at it, the brighter and brighter it glows. Indeed, a tendril of warmth seems to crack through the ice in the grotto, wrapping around my wrists and luring me closer—closer—until I float across the waves.

It takes several seconds to recognize the fluttering sensation in my chest, to hear the fervent pounding of my heart.

It smells like summer honey.

“Célie.” A panicked Mila shoots up from the water to block my path, her eyes wild and her hands lifted between us. “You need to wake up now.”

“Why?” Instead of gliding around her, I flow straight through her, my own eyes fixed eagerly upon the brilliant white light. Instinctively, I know it isn’t witchlight. No, this is something else, something comfortable and familiar—like returning home after a long journey—and I cannot fight thispullin my stomach. Helpless against it, I say breathlessly, “Mila, I think it might be—”

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