“Célie.” I stared at her for a beat, unable to believe my eyes. She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t have traversed the wilderness alone in only silk and slippers. But how else could I explain her presence? She hadn’t just happened upon this exact spot at this exact moment. She’d . . . she must’ve followed us. Célie. The reality of the situation crashed over my head, and I gripped her shoulders, resisting the urge to shake her, hug her, scold her. My pulse pounded in my ears. “What the hell are you doing here?” When she drew back, nose wrinkling, I dropped my hands and staggered backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t hurt me.” Her eyes—wide, panicked—dropped to my shirt. Belatedly, I noticed the dark liquid there. Metallic. Viscous. The fabric beneath clung to my skin. I frowned. “It’s just that you—well, you’re covered in blood.”

Bewildered, I half turned, lifting my shirt to examine my ribs. The dull ache in my side felt more like a bruise than a wound.

“Reid,” Beau said sharply.

Something in his voice halted my movements. Slowly, I followed his finger to where Saint Magdaleine lay in the snow.

To where tears of blood dripped down her cheeks.

La Petite Larme

Reid

After a moment of harried, whispered conversation—as if the statue could hear us—we retreated to the safety of the sanctuary. “It was that wretched dog,” Beau said, throwing himself into the pew beside Coco. Near the pulpit, Lou rose. Candlelight illuminated half of her face, bathing the rest in shadow. A chill swept down my spine at the chthonic image, as if she were cut in two. Part Lou and part . . . something else. Something dark.

She frowned, eyes flicking between Célie and me. “What is this?”

“This,” I said, rougher than intended, turning to scowl at Célie, “is nothing. She’s going home in the morning.”

Célie lifted her chin. Tightened her hands on the strap of her leather bag. They trembled slightly. “I am not.”

“Célie.” Exasperated, I led her to the pew beside Lou, who made no move to greet her. Odd. I’d thought the two had formed a tentative bond after what they’d endured in La Mascarade des Crânes. “You just saw how dangerous it is here. Everyone in the kingdom wants us dead.”

“I don’t want us dead.” Beau crossed his ankles on the pew in front of him, slinging an arm over Coco’s shoulders. When his gaze flicked to Célie, she flushed crimson. “Thank you for the warning, by the way, Mademoiselle Tremblay. It seems everyone else has forgotten their manners. Appalling, really. That statue would have crushed us if not for you.”

“Statue?” Lou asked.

“The statue in the cemetery . . . fell,” I murmured. I didn’t mention the tears.