Alas, we do not know, the first says amicably. We have lived here for unknown years. We could be demons, or we could be mice. We see only what our mistress sees, hear only what our mistress hears.

Mice.

She talks to us sometimes, another adds, and somehow I sense its mischievous intent. I just know, as if its stream of consciousness has merged with mine. We jest, by the way. We aren’t called Legion. Stupid name, if you ask us.

We use it on all the newcomers.

Always gets a rise.

Plucked the verse straight from your memories this time, though. Are you religious?

It is impolite to ask if someone is religious.

She isn’t a someone anymore. She’s one of us. We already know the answer, anyway. We’re being polite.

On the contrary, it is quite rude to look through her memories.

Save the sermon for when the memories have gone. Look here. They’re still fresh.

An uncomfortable prickling sensation descends as the voices bicker, and again, I instinctively know they’re rifling through my consciousness—through me. Images of my past flicker in and out of the mist faster than I can track, but the voices only press closer, hungry for more. Dancing around the maypole with Estelle, drowning in the Doleur with the Archbishop, straining at the altar beneath my mother—

Stop it. My own voice cuts sharply through the memories, and the voices draw back, surprised but chastised. As they should be. It’s like an infestation of fleas in my own subconscious. My name is Louise le Blanc, and I am most definitely still a someone. I’d tell you to stay the hell out of my head, but since I’m not sure this even is my head, I’ll assume separation is impossible at this point. Now, who’s the last newcomer to this place? Can anyone remember?

Silence reigns for one blissful second before all the voices start talking at once, arguing over who’s been here the longest. Too late, I realize the error in my judgment. These voices are no longer individuals but an eerie sort of collective. A hive. Annoyance quickly churns to anger. Longing for hands with which to throttle them, I try to speak, but a new voice interrupts.

I am the newest.

The other voices cease immediately, radiating curiosity. I’m curious myself. This voice sounds different from the rest, deep and low and masculine. He also called himself I, not we.

And you are? I ask.

If a voice could frown, this one does. I . . . I believe I was once called Etienne.

Etienne, the others echo. Their whispers thrum like insect wings. The sound is disconcerting. Worse—I feel the moment they manifest his full name from his memories. From my memories. Etienne Gilly.

You’re Gaby’s brother, I say in dawning horror, remembering as they do. Morgane murdered you.