But I would still die. I’d made an odd sort of peace with my fate last night while the castle slept. Even if Morgane hadn’t poisoned me—even if she hadn’t ordered guards outside my door—I had no doubt she’d keep her promise if I somehow managed to escape. Bile rose to my throat at the thought of tasting Reid’s blood. Of choking on his heart. I closed my eyes and willed back the sense of calm I’d conjured last night.

I was tired of running. Tired of hiding. I was just . . . tired.

As if sensing my growing distress, Manon lifted her hands in invitation. “I might be able to help with the pain.”

Stomach rolling, I glared at her for only a moment before conceding. She set to examining my various injuries with gentle fingers, and I closed my eyes. After a moment, she asked, “Where did you go? After you fled the Chateau?”

I opened my eyes reluctantly. “Cesarine.”

With a wave of her fingers, the pounding in my head and gnawing ache in my stomach eased infinitesimally.

“And how did you stay hidden? From the Chasseurs . . . from us?”

“I sold my soul.”

She gasped, lifting a hand to her mouth in horror. “What?”

I rolled my eyes and clarified. “I became a thief, Manon. I squatted in dirty theaters and stole food from innocent bakers. I did bad things to good people. I killed. I lied and cheated and smoked and drank and even slept with a prostitute once. So it amounts to the same thing. I’ll burn in hell either way.”

At her stunned expression, anger flared hot and insistent in my chest. Damn her and her judgment. Damn her and her questions.

I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to remember. That life—the things I’d done to survive, the people I’d loved and lost in the process—it was gone. Just like my life at the Chateau. Burned to nothing but black ash and blacker memory.

“Anything else?” I asked bitterly. “By all means, let’s continue catching up. We’re such great friends, after all. Are you still bedding Madeleine? How’s your sister? I assume she’s still prettier than you?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they’d been the wrong things to say. Her expression hardened, and she dropped her hands, inhaling sharply as if I’d stabbed her. Guilt trickled through me despite my anger. Damn it. Damn it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I added grudgingly, “she’s prettier than me too—”

“She’s dead.”

My anger froze into something dark and premonitory at her words. Something cold.

“The Chasseurs found her last year.” Manon picked at a spot on my bedspread, pain shimmering hard and bright in her eyes. “The Archbishop was visiting Amandine. Fleur knew to be careful, but . . . her friend in the village had broken his arm. She healed him. It didn’t take long for the Chasseurs to notice the smell. Fleur panicked and ran.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“They burned her. Eleven years old.” She shook her head, closing her eyes as if fighting against an onslaught of images. “I couldn’t reach her in time, nor could our mother. We wept as the wind carried her ashes away.”

Eleven. Burned alive.

She gripped my hand suddenly, eyes shining with fierce, unshed tears. “You have a chance to right the wrongs of this world, Lou. How could you turn away from such an opportunity?”

“So you’d still have me die.” The words left me without heat, as empty and emotionless as the chasm in my chest.

“I would die a thousand deaths to get my sister back,” Manon said harshly. Relinquishing my hand, she loosed an uneven breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was much softer. “I would take your place if I could, ma s?ur—any of us would. But we can’t. It has to be you.”

The tears spilled down her cheeks now. “I know it’s too much to ask. I know I have no right—but please, Lou. Please don’t flee again. You’re the only one who can end this. You’re the only one who can save us. Promise me you won’t try to escape.”

I watched her tears as if from another’s body. A heaviness settled through me that had nothing to do with injections. It pressed against my chest, my nose, my mouth—suffocating me, pulling me under, tempting me with oblivion. With surrender. With rest.

God, I was tired.

The words left my lips of their own volition. “I promise.”

“You—you do?”

“I do.” Despite the gentle pressure, the coaxing darkness, I forced myself to meet her eyes. They shone with a hope so clear and sharp it might’ve cut me. “I’m sorry, Manon. I never meant for anyone to die. When it—after it happens—I—I promise to look for Fleur in the afterlife—wherever it is. And if I find her, I’ll tell her how much you miss her. How much you love her.”

Her tears fell faster now, and she clasped my hands between her own, squeezing tight. “Thank you, Lou. Thank you. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. For us. All of this pain will be over soon.”

All of this pain will be over soon.

I longed to sleep.

I had little to do over the next two days but drift into darkness.

I’d been buffed and polished to perfection, every mark and memory of the past two years erased from my body. A perfect corpse. My nursemaids arrived each morning at dawn to help Manon bathe and dress me, but with each sunrise, they spoke less.

“She’s dying right before our eyes,” one had finally muttered, unable to ignore the increasing hollowness of my eyes, the sickly pallor of my skin. Manon had shooed her from the room.

I supposed it was true. I felt more connected with Estelle and Fleur than I did with Manon and my nursemaids. Already, I had one foot in the afterlife. Even the pain in my head and stomach had dulled—still there, still inhibiting, but somehow . . . removed. As if I existed apart from it.

“It’s time to get dressed, Lou.” Manon stroked my hair, her dark eyes deeply troubled. I didn’t attempt to move away from her touch. I didn’t even blink. I only continued my unending stare at the ceiling. “Tonight is the night.”

She lifted my nightgown over my head and bathed me quickly, but she avoided truly looking at me. A fortnight of inadequate eating on the road had forced my bones to protrude. I was gaunt. A living skeleton.

The silence stretched on as she stuffed my limbs into the white ceremonial gown of Morgane’s choosing. An identical match to the gown I’d worn on my sixteenth birthday.