Chapter Thirty-Eight The Sins of Another
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Sins of Another
I cannot think in the aftermath, in the great divide. I cannot exist . Because before there was Mila, and now there is not. Chest heaving, I clutch the grass in an attempt to orient myself, but Death treads on my fingers as he passes. “Come,” he tells my sister. My sister , whose last words still ring in my head. “Mathilde clearly escaped. We’re leaving.”
He hesitates beside Dimitri before crouching to ruffle his hair. “And thanks for the tip, Dima. This trip has been most”—he flicks an arch glance to where Mila used to be—“productive.”
As Death rises, Dimitri begins to stir.
No. Dima.
Thanks for the tip, Dima.
I close my eyes in defeat, letting the words wash over me. The betrayal.
Dimitri told Death about Mathilde.
All at once, the realization is too much. It’s all too much—Dimitri, Mathilde, Filippa. Filippa. My head snaps up, and I stare at my sister in anguish, unable to touch her. Unable to reach her. Unable to let her go. The words tear from my throat, unbidden, and my voice breaks on a plea. “Don’t go with him. Please.”
Filippa glances back, hesitating for a second too long as our mother weeps beside me. “Pip,” I breathe. And for just an instant— one cruel, faltering beat of our mother’s heart—I think she might listen. I think she might stay.
Then she turns and follows Death through the veil.
Maman falls to her knees as the revenants go with them, and I drop with her, cradling her in my arms and stroking her disheveled hair. She feels so feeble. So frail. As Michal struggles to free his cousins, she erupts into another fit of rattling coughs. From the shock , I tell myself. Only from the shock.
Dimitri crouches beside us in the next moment.
Despite his role in this, I allow him to pull my mother upright. Perhaps because his ankles and wrists still seep crimson, and in order to heal them, he must feed from someone who is not Death. Perhaps because without Death’s blood, he will hurt them. He will kill them.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead, unsure for what I’m apologizing.
He shakes his head. “I don’t deserve your compassion, Célie.”
“Dimitri—”
“Mila is gone because of me. I let slip about Mathilde, and now—now Mila is gone.” His expression fills with revulsion. With complete and utter self-loathing. “I should have died instead.”
Stricken, I reach out as he pulls away, but before I can catch his hand, my mother says, “He would have taken her anyway. You cannot blame yourself for the sins of another. We have enough of our own to bear.”
“You should listen to her.” Nodding to Dimitri, Michal brushes his fingers against my back as he and Odessa join us. Though his legs have healed, blood still oozes from the wound at his ribs; it stains his shirt, drips down his hand. It is his eyes, however, that draw my gaze—coal black and red rimmed, glinting with purpose. “We need to leave,” he says quietly, “before the blood draws others to this place.”
“Can you take my mother back to the castle?” I ask Dimitri. “Please?”
Odessa wipes away tears before turning to Michal. They still carve tracks through the soot on her cheeks, sparkling in the dying embers of the fire. “You two shouldn’t remain here either. It’s too dangerous.”
I lift his injured hand, examining the pieces of wood still in the wound. “We’ll follow you in a moment.”
When she still hesitates, Michal clasps her shoulder, and unspoken understanding passes between them. And I think I understand too; if tonight has proven anything, it’s that the future is never guaranteed. Indeed, the weaker the veil becomes, the stronger Death seems to grow, and none of us know how much more this realm can take.
None of us know what will happen when it finally breaks.
Reluctantly, Odessa nods, sweeping forward to kiss both our cheeks. “Just—do not be seen. Please.” To my mother, she says, not unkindly, “Can you stand, madame?”
My mother’s attention has drifted, however, and she does not seem to hear her. Instead she stares at the place where Filippa disappeared with Death, and it feels as if she is disappearing now too. Her chin quivers. Her knees tremble.
“Maman?” I ask tentatively, dreading her answer.
“I let her leave,” she whispers. “I let her leave again.”
And for the first time since Filippa slipped out our nursery window, I realize—perhaps—I am not the only one who blamed myself. “We have enough of our own to bear, Maman,” I repeat softly.
She doesn’t answer, and Dimitri deliberates only a second before nodding purposefully and sweeping her into his arms. “Be safe,” he says to us, and he trails after his sister.
Unlike Filippa, my mother does not look back.
A sharp impulse to follow fills me as I watch them go—not to care for my mother as I’ve done before, but to simply be together. It feels so much sillier on this side of things—to have wasted so much time. The words ache as I think of Mila, as I think of Michal, and with them, a bone-deep exhaustion descends. “It’s never going to be all right, is it?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulls me against him, and wordlessly, I offer my wrist. Because he is hurt, and he is bleeding. Because we cannot return to the castle until he is healed. Even then, we cannot be seen, cannot be caught—not by the vampires, not by the revenants, not by Death himself, who still roams the island in search of Mathilde. And perhaps nothing will be all right ever again.
Shaking his head, Michal leads me deeper into the forest. “Come with me.”