Page 50 of The Shadow Bride

“Is she... still alive?”

“God, I hope not. She left the Chateau before I was born, but she’d be over two hundred years old.”

My mother’s footsteps click toward the screen, and another angry sneeze precedes her as she steps pointedly around it. The kittens bob along in her wake, swatting at the hem of the violet gown in her hands. She lays it carefully upon the table. “No woman can live to be two hundred years old, Louise le Blanc, and if she can, I amsureshe laments it. Now, as the two of you seem to have lost all social graces, I must insist on inviting myself to this conversation.”

She sneezes again.

“Are you... allergic to cats?” Lou asks tentatively.

“Yes.” She snatches the thick towel from Lou’s hands. “AndIwill do that, thank you, as Célie ismydaughter.”

We both blink at her, startled.

“Er—right.” Lou shoots a contrite glance in my direction before hastily skirting around the screen. “I think I’ll just have a quick word with Pasha and Ivan about procuring some food.” She hesitates. “I assume thereisfood in this castle, right? Of the human variety?”

I nod mutely, but of course she cannot see me. In another moment, she closes the door to the bedroom, and silence reigns. I cannot stand it any longer than a few seconds, however. Not even with my mother. “I didn’t know you were allergic to cats.”

“Since I was a little girl.” She sniffs and holds out the towel. “Are you finished? Your skin is starting to wrinkle.”

It isn’t, of course. My skin cannot wrinkle ever again, even in water, yet I step from the tub without a word, allowing her to wrap the towel around me. She doesn’t speak either as she hands me silk underthings. I slide into them obediently, and she forces me upon the stool next, sweeping a gilt-backed brush through my hair. Isit very still beneath her ministrations, my throat unexpectedly thick.

My mother has never brushed my hair before.

She has never... tended to me this way. That duty always fell to my nursemaids and sister, while Satine Tremblay watched and censured from afar. Her hands are far gentler than I anticipated. Indeed, as she separates the hair at my crown, braiding it into a coronet, a shiver of pleasure lifts gooseflesh at my neck. “Your hair has grown too long,” she says tartly. “We must arrange for a cut when we return home.”

Home.

Just like that, the moment ruptures, and I close my eyes in defeat.

She does not want to have this conversation—not truly—but as she extends my gown, jerking her pointed chin for me to step into it, it seems we have little choice. For all her faults, my mother traveled a very long way, and perhaps she deserves some answers before she leaves again without me. Because—whether she chooses to acknowledge my new circumstances—I can never go home again. Requiem is my home now.

Requiem is for vampires.

Unsure how to begin, I swallow hard and glance down at the gown. Sewn of deep violet silk, it features voluminous sleeves that fall from my shoulders and taper to cuffs at my wrists. Ribbon laces up the front of the corset bodice, which angles to a V between my hips before flowing into a lavish skirt. The entire ensemble is lovely.

But of course it is lovely. My mother chose it.

Resisting a sigh, I fold back the screen and gesture to the squashy armchairs by the fire. “Shall—shall we sit down?”

“I thought you had plans at the grotto.”

With another great sneeze, she nudges aside a pair of kittens that’ve just realized I’m in the room. They tumble over themselves to reach me until I crouch, taking pity on them, and stroke each of their heads. “I shall see to moving them elsewhere.”

“You will?” Her eyebrows pinch together. “But do you not—like them?”

“Of course I do, but if you’re uncomfortable—”

“Why do they paw at you like this?” she asks abruptly. “Why do they mewl?”

For someone determined to ignore the heart of an issue, my mother has the uncanny ability to get straight to it. And I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any.

“Because cats are guardians of the dead,” I say heavily, “and I’m a Bride of Death.”

Her sharp inhale echoes between us.

Perhaps a better daughter would lie. Perhaps she would reassure her mother, would fall into her arms and weep at the reunion, but I cannot bring myself to do any of it. I can only seem to scratch this fat orange tabby’s chin. He needs a name—all of them do—and I focus intently upon the white heart on his breast while my mother waits for me to continue.Toulouse.Yes. This one shall be called Toulouse.

After another moment of silence, her mouth thins with impatience. “Well? Are you going to explain this unseemly moniker or not?”

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