“From the geysers below the palace,” one explained through the steam. She selected a gown for Coco, draping it across the ornate—albeit mildewed—chair in the corner. “We often visit them to bathe ourselves, yet this is our first opportunity to use their waters in such a fashion. How did you find your bath?” she asked Coco. “Was it pleasant?”

“Very.” Slowly, Coco trailed her fingers along the lace of her nightgown. “Thank you.”

The maid smiled. “Very good. Is there anything else you require?”

Coco touched a tentative hand to her stomach. “I’m actually feeling a little sick.”

“We shall send for some ginger tea. Just harvested from a ship on route to Amandine. It will settle your stomach.”

I waited until they’d left before shucking off my bloody chemise and sinking into the tub. The water nearly scalded me, but I relished the heat of it, the catharsis. Dipping my head back, I scrubbed at my scalp, loosening the sand and dirt there. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been truly clean.

I glanced again at Reid, who hadn’t wet himself and hadn’t woken.

Coco removed his hand from the bowl. “We need to get creative. You could—”

A light knock sounded from the threshold, and we both turned. “It’s me,” Célie said softly. “May I come in?”

At the sound of her voice, Coco and I both froze, exchanging a panicked look. It wasn’t as if we disliked Célie. Indeed, we’d risked life and limb to save her, but we hadn’t . . . spent time with her. Not really. We hadn’t bonded outside of La Mascarade des Crânes. We weren’t friends.

Coco gestured toward the curtain. Go on, she mouthed. Answer her.

I waved an agitated hand down my naked body.

Coco shrugged, the corners of her mouth lifting. Who cares? You’re hot as f—

“Come in!” I called, flinging wet sea salt at Coco’s smug face. It landed with a splat, soaking her robe, just as Célie poked her head into the room. “Hi, Célie. Is something wrong?”

A pretty pink blush spread across her cheeks at the question. She too had bathed, and she wore her own dressing robe, ruffles rising to her chin. “No.” Moving the curtain aside tentatively, she stepped forward without looking at either of us, concentrating on the ostentatious gold-and-glass serving tray in her hands. A chipped china set perched atop it. “I just . . . heard you talking. Here”—she thrust the tray toward us abruptly—“I passed a maid in the hall. She ground ginger for your stomach pains, and I—I offered to bring it to you.”

Coco cut her gaze to me, clearly waiting to follow my lead. I scowled at her. It made sense, of course, as Célie wasn’t Beau’s clinging ex-paramour, but still . . . how did one react in this situation? Célie had nowhere to go. She had no friends to speak of, and the horrors she’d endured . . . I sighed. The last time I’d spoken to her, she’d loathed my very name, accusing me of stealing Reid away from her with magic. That same night, she’d fled into my arms.

No. Realization twisted my already knotted stomach. Into Reid’s.

She’d fled into Reid’s arms, not mine. She probably still thought me a whore. She’d said as much once, right before kissing my husband at the Saint Nicolas Day ball. The knot in my stomach tangled further, and the silence lengthened as I stared at her, as she stared at anything but me.

Right. I sat forward in the tub, loathing the awkwardness between us. There was nothing for it. I’d have to ask her.

Coco sighed hard through her nose before I could speak. Flicking an impatient look in my direction, she started to say, “Thank you,” at precisely the same moment I said, “Are you still in love with Reid?”

Startled, Célie finally looked up, and the blush on her cheeks fanned to an open flame upon seeing me naked. She stumbled back a step, and the tray slipped from one hand. Though she did her best to right herself, one hand still flailed wildly, finding purchase against Reid’s—

Oh shit.

My eyes flew wide. With a small cry, she snatched her hand away from him, and the tray went flying, china shattering against the wall, the carpets, while tea sprayed in every direction. It dripped from her beautiful dressing robe as she dropped to her knees, trying and failing to fix it. “I—I’m so s-sorry. How terribly clumsy—”

Guilt reared her ugly head like a bitch, and I swung my legs over the tub, searching for something with which to cover myself. Coco threw another robe my way. I hurried to tie it as Célie continued spluttering on the sodden carpet, collecting the shards of china in vain. “I didn’t mean—oh, the maids will be so upset. And your poor stomachs—”

I knelt beside her, stilling her hand before she cut herself. Her gaze swung upward and locked on mine. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Our stomachs will be fine, Célie.” Gently, I took the shards from her and deposited them back on the floor. “We’ll all be fine.”

She said nothing for a long moment, simply staring at me. I looked back at her with feigned calm and waited, though I longed to rise, to seek the ease and familiarity of Coco’s presence amidst this painfully awkward situation. Célie had no such person to comfort her. She had no familiarity here. And though we weren’t friends, we weren’t enemies either. We never had been.

When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. Barely discernible. “No. I am not in love with him. Not anymore.” Some of the tension left my shoulders. She spoke truth. The waters wouldn’t have allowed the words otherwise. “And I’m sorry.” Her voice fell quieter still, but she didn’t lower her gaze. Her cheeks shone brilliant scarlet. “You aren’t a whore.”

Coco knelt beside us now, a clean robe in hand. She snorted, puncturing the unexpected sincerity of the moment. “Oh, she is, and I am too. You don’t know us well enough”—she extended the robe, arching a meaningful brow—“yet.”

Célie glanced down at herself, as if just realizing she’d been doused with tea.

“Take it.” Coco pressed it into her hands before motioning toward the dressing screen.

Célie blushed again, looking between us. “You probably think I’m a prude.”

“So?” I waved a hand over the broken china set, and the golden pattern connecting each shard dissipated. Sharpness pierced my chest as the pieces knit themselves back together. I lifted a hand to rub the spot, torn between sighing and wincing. Forgiveness was a painful thing. A sacrifice in itself. “You shouldn’t care what we think, Célie—or anyone else, for that matter. Don’t forfeit your power like that.”