“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally.

“A dangerous pastime.”

He ignored me, swallowing hard. He had the air of someone about to rip off a bandage—equal parts determined and terrified. “There’s a show at Soleil et Lune tonight. Maybe we could go?”

“What show is it?”

“La Vie éphémère.”

Of course it was. I chuckled without humor, staring at the shadows beneath my eyes. After Madame Labelle’s visit, I’d stayed up late into the night finishing Emilie and Alexandre’s story to distract myself. They’d lived and loved and died together—and for what?

It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.

Hope.

A hope they would never see, would never feel, would never touch. As elusive as smoke. As flickering flames.

The story was more fitting than my husband would ever know. The universe—or God, or the Goddess, or whoever—seemed to be poking fun at me. And yet . . . I glanced around at the stone walls. My cage. It’d be nice to escape this wretched place, even for a little while.

“Fine.”

I made to move past him into the bedroom, but he blocked the doorway. “Is something bothering you?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Well I am concerned with it. You aren’t yourself.”

I managed a sneer, but it was too difficult to maintain. I yawned instead. “Don’t pretend to know me.”

“I know if you aren’t swearing or singing about well-endowed barmaids, something is wrong.” His mouth quirked, and he tentatively touched my shoulder, blue eyes sparkling. Like the sun on the ocean. I shook the thought away irritably. “What is it? You can tell me.”

No, I can’t. I turned away from his touch. “I said I’m fine.”

He dropped his hand, eyes shuttering. “Right. I’ll leave you alone then.”

I watched him leave with a twinge of what felt strangely like regret.

I poked my head out after a few moments, hoping he’d still be there, but he’d gone. My foul mood only worsened when I saw Ansel sitting at the desk. He watched me apprehensively, as if expecting me to sprout horns and spew fire—which, in this case, was exactly what I felt like doing.

I stormed toward him, and he leapt to his feet. A savage sort of satisfaction stole through me at his skittishness—then guilt. None of this was Ansel’s fault, and yet . . . I couldn’t force my spirits to lift. My dream still lingered. Unfortunately, so did Ansel.

“C-Can I help you with something?”

I ignored him, shouldering past his lanky form and yanking the desk drawer open. The journal and letters were still gone, leaving only a worn Bible inside. No knife. Damn it. I knew it’d been a long shot, but irritation—or perhaps fear—made me irrational. I turned and stomped toward the bed.

Ansel shadowed my footsteps, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a weapon.” I scratched at the headboard, trying and failing to pry it from the wall.

“A weapon?” His voice hitched incredulously. “W-What do you need a weapon for?”

I threw my weight against the blasted thing, but it was too heavy. “In case Madame Labelle or—er, someone else comes back. Help me with this.”

He didn’t move. “Someone else?”

I bit back a growl of impatience. It didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t have hidden a knife in his little hole anyway. Not after he’d shown it to me.

Dropping to my stomach, I wriggled under the bed frame. The floorboards were spotless. Practically clean enough to eat from. I wondered if it was the maids or my husband with the obsessive tendencies. Probably my husband. He seemed the type. Controlling. Freakishly neat.

Ansel repeated his question, closer this time, but I ignored him, probing the floor for a hidden seam or loose board. There was nothing. Undeterred, I began knocking at regular intervals, listening for a telltale hollow thud.

Ansel stuck his head beneath the bed. “There are no weapons under here.”

“That’s exactly what I’d expect you to say.”

“Madame Diggory—”

“Lou.”

He cringed in a perfect imitation of my husband. “Louise, then—”

“No.” I whipped my head around to glare at him in the dark space, cracking my head against the frame and swearing violently. “Not Louise. Now move. I’m coming out.”

He blinked in confusion at the reprimand but scrambled back regardless. I crawled out after him.

There was an awkward pause.

“I don’t know why you’re so frightened of Madame Labelle,” he said finally, “but I assure you—”

Pffft. “I’m not frightened of Madame Labelle.”

“The—the someone else, then?” His brows dipped together as he tried to make sense of my mood. My scowl softened, but only infinitesimally. Though Ansel had attempted to remain distant after our disaster in the library two days ago, his efforts had proved futile. Mostly because I wouldn’t allow it. Beyond Coco, he was the only person in this wretched Tower I liked.

Liar.

Shut up.

“There is no one else,” I lied. “But you can’t be too careful. Not that I don’t trust your superior fighting skills, Ansel, but I’d rather not leave my safety up to, well . . . you.”

His confusion changed to hurt—then anger. “I can handle myself.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“You’re not getting a weapon.”

I hauled myself to my feet and brushed a nonexistent speck of dirt from my pants. “We’ll see about that. Where did my unfortunate husband run off to? I need to speak with him.”

“He won’t give you one either. He’s the one who hid them in the first place.”

“Aha!” I threw a triumphant finger in the air, and his eyes widened as I advanced on him. “So he did hide them! Where are they, Ansel?” I jabbed his chest with my finger. “Tell me!”

He swatted at my hand and stumbled backward. “I don’t know where he put them, so don’t poke at me—” I poked him again, just for the hell of it. “Ouch!” He rubbed the spot angrily. “I said I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know!”

I dropped my finger, suddenly feeling much better. I chuckled despite myself. “Right. I believe you now. Let’s go find my husband.”