“Oh, to have seen the look on his face.” Beau’s own face twisted as if pained. “Further proof that there is a God, and He hates me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I shoved myself to my feet, eager to end this argument. To find Father Achille and alert him of the situation, to request an additional blanket for the night. “You can’t come with us.”

Seething, she watched me pass in silent fury, her shoulders square and her spine ramrod straight. Her fingers white around her leather bag. “What I cannot do,” she finally said through clenched teeth, “is look my parents in the eye. They want to pretend nothing happened. They want to return to life as it was before. But they cannot make me.” Her voice dipped dangerously low. “You cannot make me. The thought of s-sitting at home—curtsying to noblemen, sipping tea—while Morgane remains at large physically sickens me.” When I didn’t pause my stride, she continued desperately, “She trapped me in that coffin with Filippa for weeks, Reid. Weeks. She—she t-tortured me, and she mutilated those children. What I cannot do is nothing.”

I froze at the pulpit. Surely I’d misheard her. Surely this sudden dread in my chest—it was misplaced. I didn’t turn. “She what?”

A sniff in response. “Do not make me repeat it,” she said.

“Célie—” When I finally moved toward her, nausea churning, she stopped my advance with the swipe of her hand. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. She didn’t hide them. Didn’t brush them away. That hand swung her leather bag from her shoulder, dumped its contents on the rotten floor: jewelry, couronnes, gemstones, even a chalice. The others stared at the small treasure trove, agog, but I couldn’t see past Célie’s words. Couldn’t stop . . . picturing them.

Filippa had been older than us by a few years. Unlike Célie, she’d acted as my sister. A prim, disapproving sort of sister, but a sister nonetheless. The thought of Célie trapped with her corpse—months after burial—made my stomach roll violently. I choked down bile.

“I didn’t just steal my father’s carriage,” Célie whispered into the silence. She gestured to the glittering pile. “I robbed his vault as well. I assumed we would need currency for our travels.”

Beau rose for a closer look, dragging Coco along with him. “How did you carry all of this?” He eyed Célie’s arms with unabashed skepticism as Lou shadowed their footsteps.

Coco toed the coins without interest. “And where is your carriage?”

At last, Célie dropped the leather bag. Her fingers flexed. “I left it with the stable boy at the inn.”

“And your footman?” Kneeling, Beau prodded the bag cautiously, like it was crafted from human skin. Perhaps it was. Monsieur Tremblay had once dealt in dangerous magical objects. The witches had killed Filippa for it. “Your driver?”

“I drove myself.”

“What?” Though Beau whirled, it was my voice that cut through the room. “Are you out of your mind?”

Lou cackled again, inordinately pleased with the entire situation.

Shooting her a glare, I stormed back to the group, my own temper brewing dangerously close to the surface. I took a deep breath. Another. “That’s it. This is over. I’ll speak to Father Achille, and he’ll arrange an escort to take you back to Cesarine at daybreak.” Roughly, I began shoving the jewelry back into her leather bag. Even filled with heavy jewels, it remained weightless in my hand. Perhaps not human skin, but assuredly magic. Fucking Tremblay. Fucking Célie. If a witch had happened upon her with this bag, she would’ve met the same fate as Filippa. Perhaps that was what she wanted. Perhaps after La Mascarade des Crânes, she had a death wish.

I sure as hell wouldn’t indulge it.

“Hold it.” Coco seized my arm unexpectedly, her voice the sharpest I’d heard in days. Her fingers shook. Pushing back her hood, she snatched a locket from me. When she lifted it to the candlelight, her face—paler now, nearly ashen—reflected back on its golden surface. Filigree twined around the diamond at the oblong pendant’s center. The pattern they created resembled . . . waves. Quietly, coldly, she asked, “Where did you get this?”

Lou appeared at her shoulder in an instant. With the diamonds reflected in them, her eyes gleamed almost silver.

Célie had the sense to yield a step. “I—I told you. I stole it from my father’s vault.” She glanced at me for reassurance, but I could give her none. I’d never before seen this intensity—this possession—in either Coco’s or Lou’s gaze. Their reactions were . . . unsettling. Whatever relic Célie had inadvertently brought us, it must’ve been important. “It was my favorite piece as a child, but it—it doesn’t open. Father couldn’t sell it.”

Coco shuddered as if insulted before withdrawing a blade from her cloak. I stepped hastily in front of Célie. “Oh, please,” Coco snarled, pricking the tip of her finger instead. A single droplet of blood dripped onto the diamond and beaded into a perfect circle. Then—incredibly—it sank beneath the stone’s surface, swirling bright crimson. When the color dissipated, the locket clicked open.

We all leaned closer, entranced, to see a crystal-clear surface within.

Lou recoiled.

“La Petite Larme,” Coco said, her voice softening. Her anger momentarily forgotten.

“The Little Tear,” Beau echoed.

“A mirror made from a drop of L’Eau Mélancolique.” She gazed at her reflection with an inscrutable expression before refocusing on Célie. Her lip curled in distaste once more. “It wouldn’t open because it doesn’t belong to you. It belonged to my mother.”

A pin could’ve dropped in the sanctuary, and we would’ve heard its every echo. Even Father Achille—who’d stormed through the scullery doors in an apron, clutching a soapy dish and growling about noise—seemed to realize he’d interrupted a tense moment. His eyes narrowed on Célie and the gold at her feet. “Célie Tremblay,” he acknowledged gruffly. “You’re a long way from home.”

Though she offered him a polite smile, it was brittle. Fraught. “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”