Unease pricked my stomach. “You timed her blinks?”
“You haven’t?” Beau arched a brow in disbelief. “She’s your wife—or lady friend, paramour, whatever label you’ve settled on. Something is clearly wrong with her, brother.”
The wind built around us. At the edge of the church, the white dog reappeared. Pale and spectral. Silent. Watching. I forced myself to ignore it, to focus on my brother and his asinine observations. “And you don’t have a beard,” I said irritably, gesturing to his bare chin, “if we’re voicing the obvious.” I glanced at Coco, who still hid her face on her knees. “Everyone grieves differently.”
“I’m telling you this goes beyond different.”
“Do you have a point?” I glared at him. “We all know she’s undergone recent . . . changes. But she’s still Lou.” Unbidden, I glanced back to the dog. He stared at me with preternatural stillness. Even the wind didn’t ripple his fur. Standing, I lifted my hand and whistled low. “Here, boy.” I stepped closer. Closer still. He didn’t move. To Beau and Coco, I muttered, “Has she named him yet?”
“No,” Beau said pointedly. “Or acknowledged him at all, for that matter.”
“You’re fixating.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“You still don’t have a beard.”
His hand shot to his whisker-less chin. “And you still don’t have—”
But he stopped short when several things happened at once. The wind picked up suddenly as the dog turned and disappeared into the trees. An alarmed “Look out!” rent the air—the voice familiar, too familiar, and sickeningly out of place amidst the smoke and shadows—followed by the earsplitting screech of metal tearing. As one, we looked up in horror. Too late.
The statue of Saint Magdaleine splintered at the waist, bust careening in the wind toward Beau and Coco. She seized him with a shriek, attempting to drag him out of the way, but their legs—
I launched forward, tackling the fallen statue midair, landing hard as Coco and Beau snatched their feet away. Time stood still for a brief second. Beau checked Coco for injury, and she closed her eyes, shuddered on a sob. Wincing at the pain in my side, I struggled to catch my breath, to sit up—to—
No.
Pain forgotten, I whirled, scrambling to my feet to face the newcomer.
“Hello, Reid,” Célie whispered.
White-faced and trembling, she clutched a leather bag to her chest. Shallow cuts and scrapes marred her porcelain skin, and the hem of her gown hung in tatters around her feet. Black silk. I recognized it from Filippa’s funeral.
“Célie.” I stared at her for a beat, unable to believe my eyes. She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t have traversed the wilderness alone in only silk and slippers. But how else could I explain her presence? She hadn’t just happened upon this exact spot at this exact moment. She’d . . . she must’ve followed us. Célie. The reality of the situation crashed over my head, and I gripped her shoulders, resisting the urge to shake her, hug her, scold her. My pulse pounded in my ears. “What the hell are you doing here?” When she drew back, nose wrinkling, I dropped my hands and staggered backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t hurt me.” Her eyes—wide, panicked—dropped to my shirt. Belatedly, I noticed the dark liquid there. Metallic. Viscous. The fabric beneath clung to my skin. I frowned. “It’s just that you—well, you’re covered in blood.”
Bewildered, I half turned, lifting my shirt to examine my ribs. The dull ache in my side felt more like a bruise than a wound.
“Reid,” Beau said sharply.
Something in his voice halted my movements. Slowly, I followed his finger to where Saint Magdaleine lay in the snow.
To where tears of blood dripped down her cheeks.
La Petite Larme
Reid
After a moment of harried, whispered conversation—as if the statue could hear us—we retreated to the safety of the sanctuary. “It was that wretched dog,” Beau said, throwing himself into the pew beside Coco. Near the pulpit, Lou rose. Candlelight illuminated half of her face, bathing the rest in shadow. A chill swept down my spine at the chthonic image, as if she were cut in two. Part Lou and part . . . something else. Something dark.
She frowned, eyes flicking between Célie and me. “What is this?”
“This,” I said, rougher than intended, turning to scowl at Célie, “is nothing. She’s going home in the morning.”
Célie lifted her chin. Tightened her hands on the strap of her leather bag. They trembled slightly. “I am not.”
“Célie.” Exasperated, I led her to the pew beside Lou, who made no move to greet her. Odd. I’d thought the two had formed a tentative bond after what they’d endured in La Mascarade des Crânes. “You just saw how dangerous it is here. Everyone in the kingdom wants us dead.”
“I don’t want us dead.” Beau crossed his ankles on the pew in front of him, slinging an arm over Coco’s shoulders. When his gaze flicked to Célie, she flushed crimson. “Thank you for the warning, by the way, Mademoiselle Tremblay. It seems everyone else has forgotten their manners. Appalling, really. That statue would have crushed us if not for you.”
“Statue?” Lou asked.
“The statue in the cemetery . . . fell,” I murmured. I didn’t mention the tears.
Ignoring both of us, cheeks still pink under Beau’s perusal, Célie sank into a deep curtsy. “Y-Your Highness. They alone have not forgotten their manners. Please forgive me.”
He arched a brow, smirking at me over her bowed head. “I like her.”
Coco lifted her hood to hide her face. Though she didn’t settle into Beau’s arm, she didn’t lean away, either. “She shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s that dog,” Beau repeated emphatically. “Wherever he goes, catastrophe follows. He was there when the fisherman tried to drown us too.”
Célie frowned. “But the fisherman didn’t—” At our stares, she stopped abruptly, blush deepening. She lifted a delicate shoulder. “The boat capsized on a swell. Do you not remember?”
“Have you been following us?” Lou asked.
Célie refused to look at anyone.
I sat heavily, resting my forearms on my knees. “What are you doing here, Célie?”
“I—” Her expression open, painfully vulnerable, she glanced between Lou, Beau, and Coco before settling on me. “I would like to help.”
“Help,” Lou echoed. Mocking.
Célie’s brows furrowed at her tone. “I believe I—I believe I have resources that could benefit the group in its pursuit of M-M—” She broke off again, hoisting her leather bag higher and squaring her shoulders. “In its pursuit of La Dame des Sorcières.”
“You can’t even say her name,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.
“I do not need to say her name to kill her.”
Kill her.
Good Lord.
An unexpected cackle sounded from Lou, who grinned wide and lifted her hands to clap once. Twice. Three times. The odd glint had returned to her eyes. “Well, well, it seems the kitten has finally found her claws. I’m impressed.” Her laughter burrowed under my skin, clawed at my stomach. “But my mother is not a mouse. How do you plan to kill her? Will you curtsy? Invite her to tea?”