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.