Sitting cross-legged atop her childhood bed—the golden thread of her quilt sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight—she waited impatiently for Coco to weave the blooms into a crown. “Stop squirming,” Coco chided, grinning and tugging a strand of Lou’s hair. “You’re shaking the whole bed.”

Lou only wriggled her hips more pointedly. “Oh, it’ll be shaking tonight.”

Célie’s cheeks warmed along with my own. When she swept a simple ivory gown from the armoire to cover her embarrassment, I smiled, settling on the chaise beside Madame Labelle. She couldn’t see me, of course, but from the way her eyes sparkled, from the way they danced, I thought she might feel me instead.

“You, my friend, are delectably depraved.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” With another wide grin, Lou twisted to face Coco. “Who was it who lost her virginity atop a—?”

Coughing delicately, Célie asked, “Might I suggest we postpone this conversation for more appropriate company?” Her eyes flicked to Violette and Gabrielle, who flitted about the room, examining anything and everything. The gold leaf across the ceiling. The moondust on the sill. The gilded harp in the corner and the tin soldiers beneath the chaise. Lou had etched mustaches on them as a child. A trunk at the foot of her bed still held toy swords and broken instruments, half-read books and a white rabbit. Stuffed, of course.

The very real cat at my feet hissed at it.

Melisandre, Lou had named her. The cat. Not the rabbit. With her broken tail and crooked teeth, the gray tabby wasn’t beautiful, but one wouldn’t know it from the way Lou looked at her. She’d found the cat yowling indignantly in a back alley after the battle of Cesarine, and she’d promptly adopted the pitiful creature, much to Reid’s chagrin.

Melisandre didn’t like Reid.

“Please do not worry yourself, Mademoiselle Célie.” With poppy blooms braided into her black hair, Violette giggled and bounced on the balls of her feet as Madame Labelle cackled beside me. “We know all about the birds and the bees. Don’t we, Gaby? It’s terribly romantic.”

“I think the euphemism is silly.” Gabrielle now sat beside me on her knees—wrinkling her olive dress—and attempted to coax Melisandre closer with a piece of string. The cat hissed again before glancing at me with a pained expression. Grinning, I knelt to scratch her ears, and the hiss transformed to a purr. “As if we need the imagery of a bird laying eggs to understand ovulation, or a bee depositing pollen to understand fertiliza—”

“Oh, dear.” Célie’s cheeks washed as pretty a petal pink as her dress, and she draped the ivory gown across the foot of the bed. “That is quite enough talk about that, I think. It’s almost time for the ceremony. Shall we help you don your gown, Lou?”