Successfully untangling the knot, she moved on to another section of hair. “Père told us not to worry, of course. He said he would make it right.” Her smile twisted in the mirror’s leaden reflection. “He did just that, I suppose. Slowly but surely, Maman’s jewelry returned, along with all manner of other strange and unusual objects. He changed the lock on his safe shortly thereafter—an impossible lock even I could not pick. Not then, anyway.”

“Did Evangeline return?” I asked.

“No.” She shook her head ruefully. “Evangeline wouldn’t so much as step foot through our door after that. She said we were cursed. Another maid took her place, but Pip insisted on brushing my hair regardless. I think she wanted to distract me. Père’s contacts always visited at night.”

“She sounds like a wonderful sister.”

Her smile turned warm and genuine. “She was.”

We descended into silence for only a moment—Célie continuing to stroke my hair with expert precision—before Coco surprised me by speaking. “And your mother?”

Célie spoke without hesitation, matter-of-fact, as if Coco had asked her not an exceptionally personal question, but the color of the sky. “My mother tried. She was not particularly maternal, but she gave us what she could: gifts, mostly, but on occasion she’d join us in the parlor while we sewed or played pianoforte. She would read us stories. She could be severe at times, of course—especially after Pippa’s death—but . . . it was how she expressed her love.”

Coco no longer pretended to be interested in her reflection. “Do you think she misses you?”

“I certainly hope so.” Célie shrugged delicately, setting the brush atop the vanity. She swept my now-tidy hair down my back. “But I will see her again soon. Who knows? Perhaps she’ll be proud I helped rid the world of Morgane.”

Coco and I locked gazes in the mirror. The heartbreak in hers shone clear.

My mother tried.

It shouldn’t have been a glowing commendation, yet it was. Célie’s mother had tried, and in doing so, she’d given more to her daughter than either of our mothers had given us. Unbidden, my hand crept upward to the satin ribbon around my throat. A mark of my mother’s love.

“Why do you hide it?” Célie asked abruptly. I glanced up to find her staring at me—at my scar. Even Coco seemed to return from her thoughts, eyes sharpening on the emerald ribbon. She arched a brow, and Célie nodded to her. “Coco shows her scars.”

“Coco’s scars aren’t shameful.” I tilted my head, fixing her reflection with a narrow gaze. “Why don’t you show your scars, Célie?”

She looked away then. “I don’t have any scars.”

“Not all scars are visible.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“So are you.”