He groaned, falling backward and clenching his eyes shut. “No.”

“Then open your eyes. Don’t hide from me.”

Though he seemed to have difficulty drawing breath, he did as I asked. Slowly, his eyes fluttering open and shut, he flexed into me. Every muscle in his body went taut. He flexed again. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin. Again. His throat worked, and his mouth parted. Again and again and again. He fisted his hands in the bedsheets and threw his head back, breathing ragged, body on the edge of losing control—

Lunging forward suddenly, he yanked at my pants, and I twisted to oblige, helping him drag them down my legs. When they caught on my shoes, he made a low, impatient sound, and my stomach knotted with anticipation. I shucked each boot off hastily, ignoring the notes that fluttered to the floor. Ignoring everything but his hard body on mine. When we fell back to the bed, tangled in every possible way, I clung to him, reveling in the way he moved, in the way his hips fitted between my legs and his hands braced against the headboard. In the heat of his skin. Of his gaze.

He didn’t hide from me.

Each emotion played in his eyes, uninhibited, and I consumed them all, kissing every part of his damp face between breaths, between gasps. Desire. Joy. Wonder. He moved faster, determined—chasing each raw emotion as it came—and I followed, digging my fingertips into the hard muscle of his back. Though I was desperate to close my eyes—to revel in the sensation—I couldn’t stop looking at him. He couldn’t stop looking at me. Trapped in each other’s eyes, helpless to stop ourselves, we built and built until we shattered, baring ourselves to each other at last.

Not just our bodies.

Our souls.

And in that moment when we fell apart . . . we came together again as something new.

HarperCollins Publishers

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Part III

Qui vivra verra.

He who lives, shall see.

—French proverb

HarperCollins Publishers

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The Last Note

Lou

I descended the steps that night feeling lighter than I’d felt in weeks—and perhaps a bit foolish. Coco had knocked on our door only moments ago to tell us there’d been no sign of Morgane during the procession. Not a single sighting. Not even a hint of magic on the breeze. It seemed after everything—after suffering blood camps and cold swamps, Les Dents and La Ventre—we’d come here for nothing. I couldn’t say I was exactly disappointed she hadn’t wreaked havoc and mayhem. Indeed, her inaction had quite made my night. Her notes burned holes in my boot, but I ignored them, pinching Reid’s backside as we entered the bar.

Though I knew he still grieved—as he should, as he would for the rest of his life—he shot me an indulgent, slightly exasperated smile before looping his arm around my neck and kissing my temple. “Insatiable as ever, mademoiselle.”

“That’s Madame Diggory to you.”

His free hand slipped into his pocket. “About that. I think we should—”

“At last!” At a table near the stairs, Claud applauded as we arrived. The dim candlelight couldn’t conceal the impatience on La Voisin’s and Blaise’s faces. Both sat with their respective parties as far from one another as the small room allowed. Coco, Ansel, Toulouse, and Thierry acted as a buffer between them—as did Zenna and Seraphine. They’d donned glittering costumes quite at odds with the others’ travel clothing. “The lovebirds have flown. How wonderful, how marvelous—”

“Where’s Beau?” I interrupted, scanning the room again.

“He stepped out for a moment.” Coco’s expression turned grim. “He said he needed air.”

I frowned but Reid shook his head and murmured, “I’ll explain later.”

“You lied to us.” La Voisin didn’t raise her voice, despite the wrath in her eyes. It seemed she hadn’t yet forgiven me for Coco’s sake. “You said Morgane would attack today. I brought my people here to claim vengeance, yet all we’ve received”—those eyes flicked to Blaise—“is disrespect and disappointment.”

I hurried to correct her. “We didn’t lie. We said we thought Morgane would attack today—”

“We too have been disrespected.” Blaise stood, and Liana and Terrance followed. “Though our debt remains unfulfilled, we will leave this place. Nothing more can be done.”

When both parties looked to us expectantly, Reid and I shared a surreptitious glance.

What do we do now? his eyes seemed to ask.

The hell if I know, mine replied.

Before either of us could bumble a plea, Coco spoke instead. Bless her. “Clearly, we misinterpreted the notes, but that doesn’t mean our window of opportunity has passed. Manon is in the city, which means Morgane likely is too. Perhaps we shouldn’t have hidden Lou and Reid away. Maybe we could use them to draw her out—”

“No, no.” Deveraux shook his head vehemently. Tonight, his clothes were uncharacteristically simple in head-to-toe black. Even the paint on his fingernails and kohl around his eyes matched. His lips, however, he’d daubed with bloodred rouge. “’Tis never a good idea to play cat and mouse with Morgane. She is never the mouse. Inherently feline, that one—”

Coco’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I suggest”—he pulled a white mask from his cloak and tied it around his face—“that you all take a breath and attend our performance tonight. Yes, even you, Josephine. Some levity in La Mascarade de Crânes might do wonders for those crinkles between your brows.”

I froze, staring at him.

His mask was shaped like a skull.

Though Claud continued to babble about Dame Fortune, delighted when La Voisin snapped back, Reid didn’t miss the abrupt change in my manner. “What is it?” he asked. With cold fingers, I reached down into my boot, and his smile faltered. “What are you—?”

Without a word, I handed him the scraps of paper I’d hastily replaced after my bath this evening. He accepted them with a frown. I watched his lips shape the words to himself.

Pretty porcelain, pretty doll, with hair as black as night,

She cries alone within her pall, her tears so green and bright.

Pretty porcelain, pretty doll, forgotten and alone,

Trapped within a mirrored grave, she wears a mask of bone.

“I don’t understand.” Reid’s eyes shot to mine, searching, as Claud finally stopped talking. As he stood to read the lines over Reid’s shoulder. “We still don’t know what these mean—”

“Mask of bone,” I whispered. “La Mascarade de Crânes. It can’t be coincidence.”

“What can’t be a coincidence?” He took my face in his hands. The papers fluttered to the dirty floor. “These are just bits of gibberish, Lou. We came to the Archbishop’s funeral. She wasn’t—”

“Oh dear.” Claud’s eyes widened as he bent to retrieve them, finally catching sight of the ominous words. “Feline, indeed.”