Father Achille chucked the dish at him. Though Beau managed to catch the slippery plate against his chest, water still splattered his face on impact. Father Achille nodded in righteous satisfaction. “That’s the last dish of yours I’ll be washing, boy. You can scrub the rest of them yourself—and the scullery, thanks to her.” He jerked his thumb toward Lou in irritation. “There’s a bucket and a mop waiting for you.”

Beau opened his mouth to protest indignantly, but Célie interrupted. “Father Achille.” She swept into another curtsy, though not as low this time. Not as grand. She eyed his flowered apron and disheveled robes—the disrepair of the sanctuary—in thinly veiled disapproval. “I am pleased to meet you.”

Father Achille shifted awkwardly before her, as if unaccustomed to such pristine manners. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said he looked uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Embarrassed, even. “I knew your mother,” he finally said by way of explanation. “When I lived in Cesarine.”

“Of course. I will pass along your regards.”

He snorted again. “Better not. I said I knew her, not that I particularly liked her.” At Célie’s scandalized expression, he muttered, “The feeling was mutual, I assure you. Now”—he straightened with as much dignity as he could muster—“it isn’t my business to ask what you’re doing in Fée Tombe, Mademoiselle Tremblay. It isn’t my place to tell you how stupid you are for taking up with this lot. So I won’t. Because I don’t care. Just make sure you don’t cause any trouble before you leave.”

I stepped forward as he turned on his heel. “She needs an escort back to Cesarine.”

“Reid.” Célie actually stamped her foot now. “Stop being so—so—”

“Pigheaded?” Beau suggested.

Father Achille scowled at us over his shoulder. “I am not a babysitter.”

“See?” Triumphant, she beamed, pointing a finger in the air. “He will not take me, and the journey is far too hazardous to travel alone. I must remain here. With you.”

My jaw clenched. “You had no problem hazarding it before.”

“Yes, but—” Something akin to nervousness flitted through her eyes, and her smile vanished. “I—I might’ve . . . fibbed before. A small, inconsequential thing,” she added hastily at my expression. “I told you I’d left my coach at the stable, but really, er, in actuality, I might’ve made a wrong turn—”

“A wrong turn where?” I demanded.

“To the lighthouse.”

Father Achille slowly turned.

“I lost sight of you all just before dawn.” Célie twisted her hands together at her waist. “When I came to the fork in the road, I—I chose the path leading away from the village. I never dreamed you’d seek shelter in a church. Really, I am extraordinarily lucky to have found you at all—”

“Darling Célie,” Beau interrupted. “Please get on with it.”