She said nothing for a long moment. “But . . . why doesn’t she like me?”

“Careful.” I moved to steady her when she tripped, but she jerked away, overcompensating and falling hard against the cliff. I fought an eye roll. “She knows we have history. Plus”—I cleared my throat pointedly—“she heard you call her a whore.”

Now she whipped around to face me. “She what?”

I shrugged and kept walking. “At the Saint Nicolas Day celebrations, she overheard our . . . discussion. I think she took it well, all things considered. She could’ve murdered us on the spot.”

“She . . . she heard me . . . ?” Eyes widening with palpable distress, she lifted a hand to her lips. “Oh, no. Oh, no no no.”

I couldn’t resist this time. My eyes rolled to the heavens. “I’m sure she’s been called worse.”

“She’s a witch,” Célie hissed, hand dropping to clutch her chest. “She could—she could curse me, or, or—”

“Or I could.” The smile that carved my lips felt harder than usual. Like it’d been hewn from granite. Even after Lou had risked life and limb to save her in the catacombs, Célie still considered her an enemy. Of course she did. “Why did you follow us, Célie, if you disdain us so?” At her expression, I shook my head with a self-deprecating laugh. A brittle one. Hers wasn’t an unprecedented reaction. If Coco hadn’t set the tunnels ablaze, would the denizens of La Mascarade des Crânes have returned for us? Would they have brought fire of their own? Yes, they would’ve, and I couldn’t blame them. I’d have once done the same. “Forget it.”

“No, Reid, wait, I—I didn’t mean—” Though she didn’t touch me, something in her voice made me pause. Made me turn. “Jean Luc told me what happened. He told me . . . about you. I am so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Her brows lifted, puckered. “You’re not?”

“I’m not.”

When I didn’t elaborate, her frown deepened. She blinked rapidly. “Oh. Of . . . of course. I—” Blowing air from her cheeks, she planted an abrupt hand on her hip, and her eyes sparked again with that unfamiliar temper. “Well, I’m not either. Sorry, that is. That you’re different. That I’m different. I’m not sorry at all.”

Though she’d spoken in frankness rather than spite, her words still should’ve hurt. They didn’t. Instead, the nervous energy thrumming just beneath my skin seemed to settle, replaced by peculiar warmth. Perhaps peace. Perhaps . . . closure? She had Jean Luc now, and I had Lou. Everything between us had changed. And that—that was okay. That was good.

When I smiled this time, it was genuine. “We’re friends, Célie. We’ll always be friends.”