“Thanks, Arthur.” I feel self-conscious conversing with the air, although from the way everyone ignores me, it’s clear they’re all used to it. Besides Kate, Arthur’s probably the bardia I talked to the most before leaving for Brittany. After the skirmish where I switched sides, Vincent told him to guard me on the walk back to La Maison. He was giving me these weird looks, like he was trying not to laugh. I finally asked, “What?”

“You’re Violette’s new consort?”

I didn’t respond. The word “consort” made it sound like we were a couple, when I was actually just the person she wanted around while she bitched about things and ordered people around.

He patted me on the shoulder and said, “You decided to run away after being with her for six months? You should have tried five hundred years.”

I hadn’t realized he was the Arthur—the one Violette chose me to replace after he turned against her. But once I did, man, I felt bad for him. So, we were able to have that bonding moment before she ordered someone to put an arrow through my head.

Vincent is next through the door. He looks the same as he did five years ago. That dark, handsome, brooding look, like the tortured hero of a graphic novel. His eyes meet mine and he frowns.

My stomach twists into a knot as he walks up to me. I force myself to stand and shake his hand. “Welcome,” he says. Everyone looks up, waiting, but he doesn’t say anything else. The omission makes it clear: He doesn’t see me as kindred. Just as I had feared.

When Kate offered me amnesty during the skirmish, Vincent was against it. He had knocked me to the ground and was about to run his sword through me when Kate stopped him. And though I fought side-by-side with her after that, he still didn’t trust me. He had me tell him my story as we walked back to La Maison, and afterward I overheard him say to Kate that even though my case was “different,” my destiny had been decided. Once a numa always a numa, even if it wasn’t fair. Kate defied him, and he finally caved.

I proved whose side I was on when I threw the knife at Violette, but even that didn’t win him over. For the last five years, he’s kept his silence. I’d wondered if, over time, he’d changed his opinion of me. Now the answer’s clear.

He takes the chair next to Bran and leans in to listen to what others are discussing. I must look as uncomfortable as I feel, because Charlotte pats me on the arm and whispers, “Don’t take it personally. Vincent’ll come around.”