“You call yourselves the best? This is a disaster! Again!”

We finally made it all the way through the first piece without interruption and were rewarded with grudging praise. Turning to my mother, Monsieur Johnson began to speak in earnest, and I gave off swinging. My back ached fiercely, and I swallowed away the malaise swimming in my stomach.

What linked the dead women? Why had Anushka chosen them among all the other souls living on the Isle? It was possible they were entirely random, but my gut told me otherwise. If there was a pattern, it was possible I could predict who was next, and that had to be worth something.

Leaning backwards, I cracked my aching back, my eyes drifting over the paintings of women hanging to the left of the stage. Their hairstyles and clothing were old-fashioned and strange to me, but what caught my eye was something all too familiar. My heart lurched, and I jerked upright, twisting on the swing to stare at the painting of a young woman.

Letting go with one hand, I touched the necklace at my throat, twin to the one the artist had rendered. But that paled in comparison to the fire of exhilaration that seared through my veins as I took in the writing on the plaque beneath it.

I’d seen that name before.

Chapter 28

Cécile

“This way,” I whispered, trotting toward the foyer’s entrance. Chris hurried after me, ladder slung under one arm.

“What happens if we get caught in here?” he asked. “Aren’t there guards patrolling?”

“Sabine’s distracting him, and besides, we’re not doing anything wrong,” I said, easing the door shut. “But I’d rather not have to answer any questions about why we’re here, so keep your voice down.”

In truth, my bigger concern was what my mother would do if she knew I’d sneaked out in the middle of the night. With my luck, she’d probably start chaining me to the bed every evening. But it was worth the risk. There was no other time I could reasonably drag a ladder in here to look at the rest of the paintings, and I needed to confirm whether my suspicions were correct.

While Chris set up the ladder, I circled the room with my lamp, examining all the portraits that were at eye level. I had the map and my neatly written list of names, and I compared the little engraved plaques below each painting as I went. “Estelle Perrot,” I murmured, lifting the lamp so I could better see her face. “I found one.”

Chris hurried over. “She’s wearing your necklace,” he said.

“I know. So is Ila Laval. She’s in the one to the left of the stage.” I gestured in that direction, but of course it was too dark to see. “My mother told me it’s a family heirloom.”

We were both quiet, the implications of that hanging heavily between us.

“Who are all these women?” Chris finally asked, touching the gilded frame.