Chapter Thirty-Six Precious Daughters
Chapter Thirty-Six
Precious Daughters
Cheeks flushing, I hasten to refasten my buttons as Michal laces his pants, black eyes flicking to the floor in search of his shirt. He doesn’t blush or duck his head in mortification like I do; he doesn’t feel the frantic need to fill the silence with prattle as Dimitri strolls toward us, grinning like a cat with cream.
“D-Devil’s waltz?” I ask a touch desperately.
“Sex, Célie,” Dimitri says again. “I mean sex.”
In one fluid motion, he bends to seize Michal’s shirt and my discarded undergarment from the floor—the one for my breasts, oh God, my breasts —and flicks them at each of us in turn. And I cannot believe this is happening. It just cannot be happening—yet my face flames even hotter as I catch the scrap of fabric against my unsupported chest, using it as a shield against the room at large. Because I am not the sort of girl who can go without support—not without everyone noticing—especially not my mother —
Oh God. Her voice echoes down the stairs now, sharp and pointed, followed by an irritated response from Odessa. Panicked, my gaze darts from Dimitri to Michal, who tucks in his shirt before moving to stand beside me with a resigned expression, as if bracing himself for the fiasco to come. But I don’t need him to stand beside me; I need him to stand in front of me, and I ignore his eye roll when I duck behind those broad shoulders. “Should I hide too?” he asks dryly. “Perhaps the kittens could make room under the bed—”
“I am not hiding . I am exhibiting good judgment—”
“Ah yes,” Dimitri says, highly entertained. “This all looks extremely prudent. Your mother will never suspect a thing, what with the rumpled bedcovers and your various states of undress—”
“Shut up, Dima,” I snap.
In a hasty attempt to unbutton my dress once more, I fumble with the pearls, but my fingers have grown thick and clumsy. Though Michal turns to help, my mother is practically upon us now. Any second, she’ll burst into the grotto, and—
Michal shakes his head swiftly in defeat, wrenching the gown upward before pivoting to the stairs as Satine Tremblay appears with a sharp, “Célie! What in the world are you doing?” She strides forward, her dark brows furrowing as her canny eyes sweep over the scene. “Come away from there at once.”
Fastening the last pearl behind Michal, I cringe and brace to meet my fate. I clutch the wretched undergarment behind my back and pray fervently that the deep green of my gown will hide—well, everything . Agitation pricks like needles beneath my flushed and oversensitive skin, and suddenly, I fight an overwhelming urge to laugh. What an absolutely ludicrous situation in which to have landed myself. It isn’t as if I didn’t know she’d be joining us soon. What was I thinking ?
With little other choice, I peek my head out from behind him and greet her with a valiant attempt at nonchalance. “M-Mother! Hello! Were—were you able to pack without interruption? Did anyone detect you in the tunnels?”
Pointless questions with obvious answers. If anyone had observed her, they would’ve followed her here, and we’d now be battling for our lives instead of standing in this hideously awkward silence. And perhaps such a battle would’ve been preferable, as my mother’s eyes are now narrowing between Michal and me—on my rigid posture, on his casually defensive position—and her nostrils are flaring with understanding.
Then her shrewd gaze lands on my throat.
Damn it. Too late, I clap a hand to the blood there—the teeth marks—and groan inwardly. Odessa suffers no such qualms. She echoes the sentiment with a loud and impatient sigh as she descends the stairs behind my mother, hefting an enormous trunk in her arms and angling it to fit down the narrow passage. She does not, however, look at all surprised when my mother closes the distance between us with the menace of a looming storm.
“Ah,” she says darkly, eyes flashing. “ Ah. ”
“This isn’t—” I start helplessly.
“Célie Fleur Tremblay, this is exactly what it looks like.” She points a severe finger at my nose, quivering with righteous indignation and ignoring Michal completely. “Do not insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise. I have conceived two children, you know—in wedlock,” she adds loudly at my grimace, “and the sordid requirements for such have not yet eluded my memory.”
Please , I beg the heavens, or perhaps the hells, let the ground open up and swallow me whole.
It does no such thing, of course, allowing my mother to gain her stride. Indeed, she quite literally begins to pace in front of us, pale and agitated and clutching the collar of her worn burgundy gown. “Tell me, are you prepared to bring a child into this world? Are you prepared to birth it, to nurse it and to rear it, to dedicate it to the Lord? Such are the prizes of these wanton games, daughter!” I cringe again. “It matters not how fetching the libertine might be—” At last, she throws a disgusted glance at Michal, who glares at Dimitri, who coughs to disguise his snort of laughter. “In the end, the responsibility of such indiscretion falls upon the woman, not the man. Without a ring, you risk everything, everything , not to mention your immortal soul —”
“Vampires cannot conceive or spread disease,” Odessa says flatly from behind us. “And vampiric philosophers have long debated whether immortals even possess souls to lose.” To her brother, she adds with ominous sweetness, still holding the enormous trunk, “ Thank you for helping with the luggage, by the way. Ever the gentleman, you are.”
“Oh, come on, Des.” Dimitri waves an errant hand toward Michal and me. “Someone needed to warn these two—”
But my mother hasn’t finished, stabbing her finger at Dimitri now instead. “And you —” He has the good sense to act contrite, instantly adopting an expression appropriate for a close friend’s sickbed. “I am disappointed in you too, young man. Though I expect the worst from him ”—she doesn’t deign to look at Michal again—“I expected more from someone of your impeccable moral fiber. I sincerely hope you do not approve of such—of such premarital fornication!”
Overwrought at the thought, she dissolves into a fit of great, wracking coughs, and I react without thinking, stepping around Michal to lay a hand upon her back. Even through the starched wool of her gown, her shoulder blade juts sharply against my palm. Likewise, the top of her spine—just visible beneath her chignon—seems to strain against her porcelain skin. “Have you lost weight?” I ask with a frown, momentarily forgetting my humiliation.
She looks a bit peaked, don’t you think?
“What are you talking about?” With one last irritated gasp, she brushes my hand aside and imitates the impeccable posture of a steel rod, as straight and unyielding as the ones in her corset. “Of course not. And surely I needn’t remind you of the vulgarity of such questions, Célie. One never comments on the body of another.” She looks scandalized at the very thought, and the response is so thoroughly my mother that I push Death’s voice aside, banishing it to the farthest corner of my mind. She’s fine , I tell it fiercely. Of course she is.
“My sincerest apology for enabling such impropriety, Madame Tremblay.” Bowing, Dimitri presses a chaste kiss against my mother’s hand. “From this moment onward, I shall endeavor to become the most diligent of chaperones. The two shall never again convene outside my presence, and if they do—”
My mother has lost interest in their hands, however; now she peers intently at mine, her gaze sharpening on the scrap of fabric clenched between my fingers. “Célie,” she says suspiciously, “what is that in your—”
“I am glad to hear it, brother.” Odessa drops the trunk at his feet, jerking her chin toward the black curtain that leads to the washroom. Beyond it, a second chamber awaits my mother—Mila’s previous bedroom—furnished with simple yet sumptuous fixtures befitting a queen. “Can you also endeavor to unpack her many possessions in penance? You did enable impropriety, after all.”
I could kiss Odessa.
When my mother bends—indignant—to check her trunk for damage, I hastily stuff the undergarment into Michal’s pocket, scowling up at him when his lips twitch with suppressed laughter, daring him to utter a single word. Dimitri stifles another cackle, and I glare at him too. Because this isn’t funny —not at all—and if ever a person could perish of humiliation, it would be me. Here. Now. So why am I biting my cheeks to keep from giggling alongside them? From giggling .
My mother will have a fit.
Before I can succumb, Michal steps forward smoothly, extending a hand toward the curtain. “You’ll find your room through the passage, Madame Tremblay.” A sharp smile. “ Dimitri will escort you, as well as stow your belongings and tend to your mealtimes. It should be dinner soon.”
“I have arranged for bread, cheese, and wine to be prepared,” Odessa adds. “It is not much, and for that, I apologize. The castle must believe you are my prisoner, not my guest.”
My mother sniffs in thinly veiled disapproval. “I quite understand.”
“After you, madame.” Still grinning broadly, Dimitri hauls her trunk to his shoulder and ushers her toward the curtain.
When the two disappear into the washroom, Michal withdraws my undergarment with a smirk, dangling it in front of my nose. “I assume you’ll be needing this?” I snatch it away from him—choking on that same inexplicable laughter, my cheeks flushed and my stomach tangled in knots—and turn to don it as quickly as possible, acutely aware of his eyes on my back. Odessa rolls her eyes to the ceiling.
“Are the two of you quite finished?” she asks, but Michal shakes his head when I hasten to nod, instantly chagrined. He doesn’t seem to mind his cousin’s exasperation, instead stepping forward to button one of the pearls I missed. His fingers linger in the fabric, and a fresh chill sweeps down my spine at the slight brush of his skin against mine. Instinctively I tip my face toward his, staring at his lips.
“Not even close,” he promises.
My breath catches.
“Oh, enough .” Odessa slaps his hand away before snapping her fingers at us. “We need to focus to figure out our next move. Everything is difficult enough without distractions.” She shoots a scathing look at Michal then, who spares her a fleeting glance. “As in you , cousin, so wipe that ridiculous grin off your face before it becomes permanent.” Though she speaks sharply, her eyes seem to soften at whatever she sees in Michal’s, and something unspoken passes between them. Something significant. She catches herself in the next second, however, shaking her head and planting her hands on her hips. “Guinevere never checked in this evening, which might work in our favor as it gives us more time to plan. We need to be very careful, very clever , as we think about this; we cannot simply lure Death here without proper channels in place to manage him when he arrives.” She waves a hand toward the maelstrom. “This will likely be our only chance to push him through.”
As one, we turn to look at the slowly churning waters, except—well, they don’t churn so slowly anymore. Even the surface current now looks vicious enough to swallow a man whole. “I don’t know that we’ll be able to push him.” Doubt creeps into my voice. “Not if he brings any revenants with him, let alone my sister. We’ll need some sort of—I don’t know— distraction to get him close to the water’s edge.”
“That,” Michal says, “will need to be one hell of a distraction.”
Odessa nods. “As will the lure. I doubt Death feels overly keen to return to his realm if the door is closing behind him.” She clears her throat. “Speaking of which, I’ve been giving some thought as to how we might—”
Before she can finish said thought, however, a silver shape streaks through the floor, and I gasp at the sight of Guinevere, my eyes pulsing with cold light. Michal’s follow suit. Immediately, I know something is wrong—Guinevere’s cheeks have flushed opaque, and as her eyes meet mine, they bulge with panic.
No.
With fear.
“ There you are!” With a little shriek of relief, she wrings my hand between us before attempting to drag me toward the staircase with all her strength. “Célie, you must hurry, hurry —”
“Guinevere? What is it?” Hastening behind her, I reach back to seize a bewildered Odessa’s hand, but Guinevere has escalated past the point of coherency. Whatever has happened, she seems unable to articulate it—she simply pulls on my hand with increasing desperation, spluttering wildly between sobs, until Michal blocks her path halfway across the grotto.
“Slow down, Guinevere, and tell us what happened.”
“It’s—it’s— Mathilde !” The name bursts from her on a wail, and I nearly stumble as a jolt of shock kindles straight to foreboding. Somehow, I know exactly what Guinevere is going to say before she says it, though I never expected Death to find her so soon. “Her cottage—oh, Michal! Her cottage is—it is dying , and the revenants—D-D-Death—” She wrings her hands again, dragging me and Odessa forward once more. “She told him no, and he—he—oh, you must come! Come now —”
“How many revenants, Guinevere?” Odessa asks sharply.
Though I do not know if ghosts can swoon, Guinevere looks in danger of doing just that. “D-Dozens and dozens, perhaps more!” More? My eyes narrow on her pale face in disbelief—at the thin rivulets of water streaming down her cheeks. Are those— tears ? Michal stares at them too, jaw clenched, before reaching out to touch one.
His finger comes away wet.
But—no. No. What is happening ? Ghosts cannot cry; they do not have a body with which to produce fluid, yet there is no denying the moisture on Michal’s fingertip. Behind us, the ocean thrashes as if laughing, and three more revenants emerge in the eye of the maelstrom. The current is much too strong for them to escape, however; it drags them back down again with brutal force.
“It’ll take too long to reach the other side of the isle.” With a deep, steadying breath, I pull my hand away from Guinevere, who seizes her neck and continues to weep. “Both Filippa and Death can—pleat the veil, somehow, to travel great distances.” I screw up my face in concentration. I try to remember his exact movement, but the memory of Mathilde’s withered face keeps intruding, her cackling laugh as she served us café. I shake my head hastily to clear it. “The depth of the pleats must correspond to the distance between locations, but he—he never explained it properly.”
Odessa squeezes my hand, her dark eyes alight with apprehension. “You think you can do it too?”
“Only one way to find out.” Though Michal speaks to me, his gaze flicks back to Guinevere, who still clutches her neck as if pained. “Mathilde’s cottage is on the northeastern corner of the isle.” Then, unable to help it, “Guinevere, are you—?”
“I am fine— fine !” She flaps her free hand hysterically. “M-Mathilde—”
Right. Right.
I’ve never been keen on arithmetic, however—geography, yes, but my interest always lay in the locations themselves rather than the science of cartography. Those details belonged with Filippa, who understood numbers in a way I never could. Filippa. Her name acts like a spark to kindling, burning through the panic in my chest. Did she help Death learn how to travel through the veil? Is she with him now, terrorizing Mathilde, or—or harvesting her blood ?
You should’ve taken a leaf out of my book, petal, and stayed hidden.
“Célie?” Odessa crushes my fingers in hers, shaking them slightly in frustration. “Is anything happening—?”
Determined, I seize a fistful of the veil at random, ignoring Guinevere’s strange behavior and focusing with every fiber of my being. The veil seems to ripple between my fingers in response, and—when I close my eyes to focus on that instead—a peculiar sensation travels up my wrist to my arms. A tingling . No. My brows furrow as I contemplate the sensation, which is more... awareness than anything else. Or perhaps pressure?
My eyelids flutter as I rotate the veil in my hand, considering the heft and feel of it like I’ve never done before. My concentration narrows to the individual filaments, each translucent thread, but instead of constricting to that point of focus, the veil seems to spread and diffuse under my attention—up my arm now, across my shoulders and down my chest, my stomach, my legs. It settles upon my body—no, into it—like a diaphanous second skin, light as air but tainted with an inexplicable sense of wrongness .
The veil feels sick. Very sick.
The holes in the fabric—they are wounds, weeping gently, spreading disease throughout the realms and poisoning all they touch. So many injuries, too many for us to ever heal. The veil hangs in tatters around me, yet still I attempt to fold the fabric as I watched Death do. I clamp the pleats tightly between my fingers. Perhaps each one holds ten miles of the spirit realm. Or perhaps it holds fifty. Like Michal said, we cannot know until we try, so I pierce the bundle with a single finger, imagining Mathilde’s cottage and ignoring the slice of pain as I slash downward to open a window.
Dark water meets us on the other side.
I close the window quickly, murmuring, “We went too far.”
Too late, I realize Michal has stepped in front of me now, his eyes rapt and anxious on my face. They blaze silver. “How do you know?”
“It didn’t feel like Requiem.”
Feelings have never been enough for Odessa, however, so when she opens her mouth to argue, I point to the sky beyond the grotto and say, “We’re facing due west, which means I just opened a window somewhere in the waters between Requiem and Cesarine. I need to turn clockwise to reach Mathilde’s cottage—northeast, remember?”
“Wait.” Michal touches my cheek before I can turn. “Are you all right?”
And I cannot lie to him. “No,” I whisper.
Then I adjust my angle, and I try again with less fabric—five pleats less, this time, and folded with more precision. Fresh pain sears my senses as I tear through the veil again, revealing the ruins of an ancient city. Less sickness here. I force myself to breathe. Fewer holes. Though I’ve never seen these crumbling structures on the island, they still feel like Requiem. Indeed, waves crest and crash in the distance, and faint traces of the breeze smell of brine, of algae, of—
Heather.
“We need to go farther south,” Michal says.
With great difficulty, I close this window too, taking a step backward, then another. I cannot explain the decision, only the frustration gnawing at my chest. The growing weakness of my limbs. How does Death do this? How does Filippa? Already, I can feel my connection with the veil slipping. It is too sick, too broken to hold in my hands for long.
Still, an overwhelming sense of jamais vu washes through me as I turn for the fourth and final time, and even before I slide my hand through the pleats, I know this window is the right window. I just know . Even before I scent the Bluebeard blossoms, the bones, the rotten stench of revenants and ancient earth and Filippa, charred fur—
“Célie!” My mother’s voice fills the grotto, and together, the four of us whirl to find her charging from the washroom—Dimitri trailing helplessly behind—her eyes wide and fixed upon the tear in the veil. “What are you doing? What is that? Where is that?” Then, incredibly—
“Filippa,” my mother breathes.
Her face drains of all color, and my heart sinks too quickly for my mind to follow. When I follow her gaze, however, there she is: Filippa, just visible in the distance, standing with her back to us as her black hair billows in the evening breeze. She watches calmly as the ground beneath Mathilde’s cottage convulses violently, as deep cracks appear in its foundation.
At the sight of her, my focus slips, and I blink rapidly, disoriented. Though the tear in the veil remains open, my mother should not be able to see it—not the tear, not the veil, and certainly not my treacherous sister beyond it. Because Satine Tremblay does not know Death. She is not a Bride, and I am not touching her in any way, which means—
Beyond the tear, a bear roars in unmistakable fury.
Everything happens in quick succession after that: Guinevere hurtles toward D’Artagnan with another shriek, Mathilde’s silver hair flashes through the trees, and—with an almighty groan—half her cottage breaks away from the rest. It crumbles straight into the earth as the forest floor cracks open wide, exposed roots like teeth as they snap and swallow her bedroom whole.
And Filippa—
Filippa staggers on the edge of that abyss.
I do not stop to think. I simply react , diving recklessly toward my sister. Michal catches my hand at the last second, however, and a rush of movement sounds behind him. I hear rather than see Odessa seize his wrist; Dimitri lunge forward to catch her elbow. Though my mother cannot move fast enough to catch us, she needn’t touch anyone to see the tear.
No.
Satine Tremblay simply leaps after four vampires, falling headlong through the veil.