I interrupt him. “That’s the thing. Maurice was carrying out Violette’s plan, conceived before she died. She had found an ancient text that said that any Flame-finger who betrayed a human to their death would automatically become a numa.”

Gaspard is the first to speak. “Hold on. Numa and bardia share the same DNA. It’s only their actions in life that predict what they will become in death. So, if a Flame-finger automatically becomes a numa after betraying someone to their death, it is possible that they would also become a bardia if they die saving someone.”

My mind is grasping at the possibility, hope inflating like a balloon in my chest, but then I remember something, and the balloon pops. “I don’t think the rule applies to any guérriseur. They have to be a Flame-finger. Maurice didn’t have Liv steal Siaka’s gift simply to raid the archives. It was so that she was sure to become a numa upon death.”

Gaspard and Bran look at me blankly. I try again. “Siaka gave Liv his gift. He wasn’t a Flame-finger anymore when he died.”

Bran gets a burning look in his eyes. “Once a Flame-finger, always a Flame-finger.”

“Where’s Siaka now?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“His coffin is downstairs,” Gaspard says. “We scheduled the funeral for tomorrow, so that you would be able to say goodbye.” He clears his throat. “The others said you had a special bond.”

I launch myself up so forcefully that I manage to push past Bran and Gaspard. I get halfway across the room before collapsing in a heap. “Help me up!”

“You need sustenance,” Gaspard says, grabbing a bottle of water and making me drink.

Bran helps me stand, and we stagger together toward the door.

“Stand aside, my friend,” Gaspard says, and scooping me into his arms begins carrying me down the stairs. For a second I can’t believe this thin, middle-aged man is carrying me, and then I remember how strong he is when he fights, and that when it comes to revenants, you can never judge by appearances.

Once in the front hall, Bran opens the door for us, and there, in the middle of the sitting room, an open coffin sits on a table. Inside, Siaka is tucked into a nest of green satin padding, his arms folded across his chest and his face drained of color. Someone’s dressed him in a white button-down shirt and a navy suit jacket, which makes him look even less like himself than the whole drained-of-life thing. Tied around his neck, hiding the place where Maurice’s dagger entered Siaka’s neck and killed him, is a beautiful blue silk scarf.