“The only book I could find in that wretched library without the words holy or extermination in the title.” She lifted it up for me to see. Shepherd. I almost chuckled. It’d been one of the first books the Archbishop had allowed me to read—a collection of pastoral poems about God’s artistry in nature.

She flounced to my bed—her bed—with a disgruntled expression. “How anyone can write about grass for twelve pages is beyond me. That’s the real sin.”

I hoisted myself to my feet and approached. She eyed me warily. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you a secret.”

“No, no, no.” She scrambled backward. “I’m not interested in your secret—”

“Please.” Scowling and shaking my head, I walked past her to my headboard. “Stop talking.”

To my surprise, she complied, her narrowed eyes watching me scoot the bed frame from the wall. She leaned forward curiously when I revealed the small, rough-hewn hole behind it. My vault. At sixteen—when Jean Luc and I had shared this room, when we’d been closer than brothers—I’d gouged it into the mortar, desperate for a place of my own. A place to hide the parts of myself I’d rather him not find.

Perhaps we’d never been closer than brothers, after all.

Lou craned her neck to see inside, but I blocked her view, rifling through the items until my fingers grazed the familiar book. Though the spine had begun to split from use, the silver thread of the title remained pristine. Immaculate. I handed it to her. “Here.”

She accepted it gingerly, holding it between two fingers as if expecting it to bite her. “Well, this is unexpected. La Vie Éphémère . . .” She looked up from the cover, lips pursed. “The Fleeting Life. What’s it about?”

“It’s . . . a love story.”

Her brows shot up, and she examined the cover with newfound interest. “Oh?”

“Oh.” I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “It’s tastefully done. The characters are from warring kingdoms, but they’re forced to work together when they uncover a plot to destroy the world. They loathe each other initially, but in time, they’re able to set aside their differences and—”

“It’s a bodice-ripper, isn’t it?” She waggled her eyebrows devilishly, flitting through the pages to the end. “Usually the love scenes are toward the back—”

“What?” My urge to smile vanished, and I tugged it from her grasp. She tugged it back. “Of course it isn’t,” I snapped, grappling for it. “It’s a story that examines the social construct of humanity, interprets the nuance of good versus evil, and explores the passion of war, love, friendship, death—”

“Death?”

“Yes. The lovers die at the end.” She recoiled, and I snatched the book away. My cheeks burned. I never should’ve shared it with her. Of course she wouldn’t appreciate it. She didn’t appreciate anything. “This was a mistake.”

“How can you cherish a book that ends in death?”

“It doesn’t end in death. The lovers die, yes, but the kingdoms overcome their enmity and forge an alliance. It ends in hope.”

She frowned, unconvinced. “There’s nothing hopeful about death. Death is death.”

I sighed and turned to place the book back in my vault. “Fine. Don’t read it. I don’t care.”

“I never said I didn’t want to read it.” She held out a hand impatiently. “Just don’t expect me to develop your weirdly evangelical zeal. The plot sounds dreary, but it can’t be worse than Shepherd.”

I clutched La Vie Éphémère with both hands, hesitating. “It doesn’t describe grass.”

“A decisive point in its favor.”

Reluctantly, I handed it to her. This time, she accepted it carefully, examining the title with new eyes. Hope flickered in my chest. I cleared my throat and stared behind her at a dent in the headboard. “And . . . it does have a love scene.”

She cackled, flipping through the pages eagerly.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled too.

A knock sounded an hour later. I paused in the washroom, shirt halfway over my head. The tub half full. Lou made an exasperated noise from the bedroom. Pulling my shirt back down, I opened the newly repaired washroom door as she tossed La Vie Éphémère on the quilt and swung her legs from the bed. They barely reached the floor. “Who is it?”

“It’s Ansel.”

With a grumbled curse, she hopped down. I beat her to the door and pulled it open. “What is it?”

Lou glared at him. “I like you, Ansel, but this had better be something good. Emilie and Alexandre just had a moment, and I swear if they don’t kiss soon, I will literally die.”

At Ansel’s confusion, I shook my head, fighting back a grin. “Ignore her.”

He nodded, still bemused, before bowing hastily. “Madame Labelle is downstairs, Captain. She—she demands to speak with Madame Diggory.”

Lou wriggled beneath my arm. I stepped aside before she could stomp on my toe. Or bite me. A learned experience from our time at the river. “What does she want?”

Lou crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Did you tell her to piss off?”

“Lou,” I warned.

“She refuses to leave.” Ansel shifted uncomfortably. “She says it’s important.”

“Well, then. I suppose Emilie and Alexandre will have to wait. Tragic.” Lou elbowed past me to grab her cloak. Then she halted abruptly, nose wrinkling. “Also, Chass—you stink.”

I blocked her path. Resisted the urge to rise. Or smell myself. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Of course I am.” She sidestepped me, scrunching her face and waving a hand in front of her nose. I bristled. Surely I didn’t smell that bad. “Ansel just said she won’t leave until she sees me.”

Deliberately, I reached behind her, brushing my sweaty skin against her cheek, and grabbed my coat. She didn’t move. Merely turned her head to glare at me, eyes narrowed. Our faces inches apart, I fought the urge to lean down and inhale. Not to smell me—but to smell her. When she hadn’t been traipsing in the infirmary, she smelled . . . good. Like cinnamon.

Clearing my throat, I shoved my arms into my coat. My shirt, still damp with sweat, rolled and bunched up against my skin. Uncomfortable. “She shouldn’t be here. We finished our interrogation yesterday.”

And a lot of good it had done us. Madame Labelle was as slippery as Lou. After accidentally revealing the witch’s true name, she’d remained tight-lipped and wary. Suspicious. The Archbishop had been furious. She was lucky he hadn’t detained her for the stake—her and Lou.

“Perhaps she wants to extend another offer,” Lou said, oblivious to the precariousness of her situation.

“Another offer?”

“To buy me for the Bellerose.”

I frowned. “The purchase of human beings as property is illegal.”

“She won’t tell you she’s purchasing me. She’ll say she’s purchasing an indenture—for training me, beautifying me, providing me room and board. It’s how people like her slip through the cracks. East End runs on indentures.” She paused, tilting her head. “But that’s probably a moot point now that we’re married. Unless you wouldn’t mind sharing?”