Gathering up the bloody rags, I tossed them into the fire. Pulling off my ruined dress, I tossed that in too, before donning my discarded dressing gown. Then I stood in front of the fire, my focus all on Tristan while I watched my dress burn into ash.

He was excited, which wasn’t an emotion I’d felt from him in a long time. What was he up to? What was he planning? What would he think of what I had just done?

“You doing all right?”

I jumped. Chris had come back into the house without me even noticing. “No. I don’t know,” I said.

He gave me a sympathetic look, then picked up the discarded map.

“Just burn it,” I said, turning back to the fire. “It’s useless.”

Chris made a noncommittal grunt. “That’s interesting,” he said.

“What?” The brightness of the fire was making my eyes sting, but I refused to blink.

“One of these burns is marking the castle.”

My heart skipped, my thoughts instantly going to my theory about an alliance between Marie and Anushka.

“What about the others?” I asked, coming around to look over his shoulder. “Do you recognize any of the other locations?”

His finger trailed over the surface of the map. “I’m not sure about all of them, but at least ten of these marks are in cemeteries.”

I met his gaze. “She’s been staying alive all these long years. Maybe this is how.”

“I think we should go look,” Chris said. “After everything we went through tonight, it seems stupid not go check out what the map is showing us.”

Anticipation prickled my skin. “You’re right.”

“Go put on something warm,” Chris said, his cheeks reddening with excitement. “I’ll get our horses – we have a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

The wind blasted bits of snow and sleet against my cheeks as we trotted through the quiet streets, the gas lamps dripping melted snow into their pools of light. Those few who were out kept their heads down and hoods up – their pace that of someone intent on putting a roof over their head and hands before a hearth. I could not recall a time when I’d felt the wind so frigid, the air biting gleefully at any skin that happened to be exposed. I pitied the poor folk in Pigalle who had no homes to flee to, and prayed that the cold snap would end swiftly.

My mind swirled as I tried to come up with justification for the nineteen marks on the map, but barring me having messed up the spell, there was no explanation other than that there were nineteen other lives tied to hers. Maybe nineteen victims.

Chris reined his horse in at the gates to the Montmartre cemetery. “What do you think we’ll find?” he asked, dismounting.

“I have no idea.” But I did know something was here; the earth was drawing me forward, leading me toward one of the spots my filthy bit of spell casting had revealed. Reins in one hand, I pushed open the iron gates and winced at the loud squeal of rusted hinges. “This way.”