“Hold it.” Coco seized my arm unexpectedly, her voice the sharpest I’d heard in days. Her fingers shook. Pushing back her hood, she snatched a locket from me. When she lifted it to the candlelight, her face—paler now, nearly ashen—reflected back on its golden surface. Filigree twined around the diamond at the oblong pendant’s center. The pattern they created resembled . . . waves. Quietly, coldly, she asked, “Where did you get this?”

Lou appeared at her shoulder in an instant. With the diamonds reflected in them, her eyes gleamed almost silver.

Célie had the sense to yield a step. “I—I told you. I stole it from my father’s vault.” She glanced at me for reassurance, but I could give her none. I’d never before seen this intensity—this possession—in either Coco’s or Lou’s gaze. Their reactions were . . . unsettling. Whatever relic Célie had inadvertently brought us, it must’ve been important. “It was my favorite piece as a child, but it—it doesn’t open. Father couldn’t sell it.”

Coco shuddered as if insulted before withdrawing a blade from her cloak. I stepped hastily in front of Célie. “Oh, please,” Coco snarled, pricking the tip of her finger instead. A single droplet of blood dripped onto the diamond and beaded into a perfect circle. Then—incredibly—it sank beneath the stone’s surface, swirling bright crimson. When the color dissipated, the locket clicked open.

We all leaned closer, entranced, to see a crystal-clear surface within.

Lou recoiled.

“La Petite Larme,” Coco said, her voice softening. Her anger momentarily forgotten.

“The Little Tear,” Beau echoed.

“A mirror made from a drop of L’Eau Mélancolique.” She gazed at her reflection with an inscrutable expression before refocusing on Célie. Her lip curled in distaste once more. “It wouldn’t open because it doesn’t belong to you. It belonged to my mother.”

A pin could’ve dropped in the sanctuary, and we would’ve heard its every echo. Even Father Achille—who’d stormed through the scullery doors in an apron, clutching a soapy dish and growling about noise—seemed to realize he’d interrupted a tense moment. His eyes narrowed on Célie and the gold at her feet. “Célie Tremblay,” he acknowledged gruffly. “You’re a long way from home.”

Though she offered him a polite smile, it was brittle. Fraught. “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Achille,” he said, lips pursing. “Father Achille Altier.”

Coco snapped the locket shut. Without a word, she replaced her hood.

“Nice apron.” Beau grinned at the hand-painted roses on Father Achille’s apron. Brushstrokes large and uneven, they looked as though they’d been painted by a child. In blue and red and green.

“My nieces made it for me,” Father Achille muttered.

“It really brings out your eyes.”