“Because who cares if you’re a prude?” Coco pulled Célie to her feet with both hands. She gestured to me. “Who cares if we’re whores? They’re just words.”

“And we can’t get it right no matter what we do.” Winking, I slipped a satin ribbon from the armoire, tying it around my throat before falling into the hammock once more. Reid swayed beside me. I ignored the knot of panic in my chest. He hadn’t so much as stirred. Instead, I flicked his boot and added, “We might as well do it our own way. Being a prude or being a whore are both better than being what they want us to be.”

Célie blinked between us, eyes huge, and whispered, “What do they want us to be?”

Coco and I exchanged a long-suffering look before she said simply, “Theirs.”

“Be prudish and proud, Célie.” I shrugged, my hand curling instinctively around Reid’s ankle. “We’ll be whorish and happy.” He would wake soon, surely. And if not, Isla—the Oracle, Claud’s sister, a goddess—would help us fix everything. We just needed to dine with her first. I glared at the brush on the dressing table. Following my gaze, Coco seized it before I could melt its golden handle into ore.

Planting one hand on her hip and grinning in challenge, she said, “It’s time, Lou.”

I glared at her now. “Everyone knows not to brush wet hair. The strands are weaker. They could break.”

“Shall we summon a maid for a fire, then?” When I didn’t answer, she waved the brush under my nose. “That’s what I thought. Up.”

Rolling my eyes, I slid from the hammock and stalked toward the mildewed chair. It sat before a full-length, gilded vanity mirror that had clouded with age. Golden serpents twined together to form its frame. I stared peevishly at my reflection within it: cheeks gaunt, freckles stark, hair long and tangled. Water still dripped from its ends, permeating the thin silk of my robe. I didn’t shiver, however; the melusines had cast some sort of magic to keep the air balmy and comfortable.

Before Coco could lift the brush—I suspected she secretly enjoyed tormenting me—Célie stepped forward tentatively, hand extended. “May I?”

“Er—” Coco flicked her gaze to mine in the mirror, uncertain. When I nodded once, part curious—mostly curious—she handed Célie the brush and stepped aside. “The ends tangle,” she warned.

Célie smiled. “So do mine.”

“I can brush my own hair, you know,” I muttered, but I didn’t stop her as she lifted a small section and began working the brush through the ends. Though she held the hair firm, she moved with surprising gentleness.

“I do not mind.” With the patience of a saint, she set about untangling two gnarled locks. “Pip and I once brushed each other’s hair every night.” If she felt me still, she didn’t comment. “We dismissed our maid when I was ten. Evangeline was her name. I couldn’t understand where she’d gone, but Pippa—Pippa was old enough to realize what had happened. We often snuck into our father’s safe as children, you see. Pippa liked to steal his ledger, sit at his desk, and add his sums, pretending to smoke his cigars, while I played with our mother’s jewels. She knew our parents had lost everything in a bad investment. I didn’t know until all of Maman’s diamonds disappeared.”

Successfully untangling the knot, she moved on to another section of hair. “Père told us not to worry, of course. He said he would make it right.” Her smile twisted in the mirror’s leaden reflection. “He did just that, I suppose. Slowly but surely, Maman’s jewelry returned, along with all manner of other strange and unusual objects. He changed the lock on his safe shortly thereafter—an impossible lock even I could not pick. Not then, anyway.”

“Did Evangeline return?” I asked.

“No.” She shook her head ruefully. “Evangeline wouldn’t so much as step foot through our door after that. She said we were cursed. Another maid took her place, but Pip insisted on brushing my hair regardless. I think she wanted to distract me. Père’s contacts always visited at night.”

“She sounds like a wonderful sister.”

Her smile turned warm and genuine. “She was.”

We descended into silence for only a moment—Célie continuing to stroke my hair with expert precision—before Coco surprised me by speaking. “And your mother?”

Célie spoke without hesitation, matter-of-fact, as if Coco had asked her not an exceptionally personal question, but the color of the sky. “My mother tried. She was not particularly maternal, but she gave us what she could: gifts, mostly, but on occasion she’d join us in the parlor while we sewed or played pianoforte. She would read us stories. She could be severe at times, of course—especially after Pippa’s death—but . . . it was how she expressed her love.”

Coco no longer pretended to be interested in her reflection. “Do you think she misses you?”

“I certainly hope so.” Célie shrugged delicately, setting the brush atop the vanity. She swept my now-tidy hair down my back. “But I will see her again soon. Who knows? Perhaps she’ll be proud I helped rid the world of Morgane.”

Coco and I locked gazes in the mirror. The heartbreak in hers shone clear.

My mother tried.

It shouldn’t have been a glowing commendation, yet it was. Célie’s mother had tried, and in doing so, she’d given more to her daughter than either of our mothers had given us. Unbidden, my hand crept upward to the satin ribbon around my throat. A mark of my mother’s love.

“Why do you hide it?” Célie asked abruptly. I glanced up to find her staring at me—at my scar. Even Coco seemed to return from her thoughts, eyes sharpening on the emerald ribbon. She arched a brow, and Célie nodded to her. “Coco shows her scars.”

“Coco’s scars aren’t shameful.” I tilted my head, fixing her reflection with a narrow gaze. “Why don’t you show your scars, Célie?”

She looked away then. “I don’t have any scars.”

“Not all scars are visible.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“So are you.”

Sighing, Coco joined Célie behind me, her hands threading through my hair. Comfortable and familiar. She leaned down, her cheek hovering beside mine, and our reflections met once more. “How many times have I told you? No scar is shameful.” Mouth set with determination, she plucked at the end of my ribbon, and it fell from my throat, revealing my scar. Except it wasn’t my scar any longer. At least, it wasn’t the scar I’d always known.