“Célie—” When I finally moved toward her, nausea churning, she stopped my advance with the swipe of her hand. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. She didn’t hide them. Didn’t brush them away. That hand swung her leather bag from her shoulder, dumped its contents on the rotten floor: jewelry, couronnes, gemstones, even a chalice. The others stared at the small treasure trove, agog, but I couldn’t see past Célie’s words. Couldn’t stop . . . picturing them.

Filippa had been older than us by a few years. Unlike Célie, she’d acted as my sister. A prim, disapproving sort of sister, but a sister nonetheless. The thought of Célie trapped with her corpse—months after burial—made my stomach roll violently. I choked down bile.

“I didn’t just steal my father’s carriage,” Célie whispered into the silence. She gestured to the glittering pile. “I robbed his vault as well. I assumed we would need currency for our travels.”

Beau rose for a closer look, dragging Coco along with him. “How did you carry all of this?” He eyed Célie’s arms with unabashed skepticism as Lou shadowed their footsteps.

Coco toed the coins without interest. “And where is your carriage?”

At last, Célie dropped the leather bag. Her fingers flexed. “I left it with the stable boy at the inn.”

“And your footman?” Kneeling, Beau prodded the bag cautiously, like it was crafted from human skin. Perhaps it was. Monsieur Tremblay had once dealt in dangerous magical objects. The witches had killed Filippa for it. “Your driver?”

“I drove myself.”

“What?” Though Beau whirled, it was my voice that cut through the room. “Are you out of your mind?”

Lou cackled again, inordinately pleased with the entire situation.

Shooting her a glare, I stormed back to the group, my own temper brewing dangerously close to the surface. I took a deep breath. Another. “That’s it. This is over. I’ll speak to Father Achille, and he’ll arrange an escort to take you back to Cesarine at daybreak.” Roughly, I began shoving the jewelry back into her leather bag. Even filled with heavy jewels, it remained weightless in my hand. Perhaps not human skin, but assuredly magic. Fucking Tremblay. Fucking Célie. If a witch had happened upon her with this bag, she would’ve met the same fate as Filippa. Perhaps that was what she wanted. Perhaps after La Mascarade des Crânes, she had a death wish.

I sure as hell wouldn’t indulge it.