Noni pulls away from me, and I can tell from the greenish cast to her face that she’s seconds from decorating Daria’s home with half-digested breakfast, too.

“So you believe she’s alive,” I say carefully.

Daria’s feline eyes flick to mine. “Of course. Family life might not have been to her taste, but she would never leave me like that. Her greatest collaborator.”

Leave me like that.

Me.

Like neither of the daughters in front of her matter, like we don’t even exist. The daughters who don’t know the real Mireille. Lady.

That’s when I tap into it: my fury, simmering just below the shock.

I have a witchy way of making other people sense my fury without acting out. Like, how you can tell a pot’s hot without touching it. And my calmness, my stillness paired with it can send waterfalls of chills down anyone’s spine.

I close my eyes to reset them, then open and fix them on her. The redheaded snake. Who is either messing with us or messing with us in an even worse way or is just.

Plain.

Dense.

“Well, Daria, we’ve enjoyed the show,” I say crisply, coming to my feet. “In fact, I’m sure it was enough entertainment for all of us, am I right? Please don’t worry about coming to the retrospective tonight—the magazine told me they lost your invitation, and they’re reconsidering your value as a resource, too.” I look at Noni. “I know I am.”

Daria’s eyes flash to mine, uneasy, almost, and I’m steady enough to spot a dark shade of admiration in them. “I live alone, my dear,” she says. “I’ve heard that too often to feel wounded by it.” She straightens, dress in her arms, and holds my gaze. “You’re free to go, if my truths are too rich for your blood.”

I don’t look away. The atmosphere shifts, and the air tastes wet and almost savory, like a cool cloud is passing over us.

“She’s going to be so disappointed hearing you talk about her this way,” I say with faux tenderness.

“What?” Daria asks, her voice catching. She adjusts her robe-dress, and the fabric at the neck loosens. I spot—I think—the shadow of bruises there, but her hand flies up to cover them.

Because of that, I almost don’t notice Daria pause, her eyes losing focus. Her brow, once smooth, furrows. Her skin turns asphalt gray. She looks far older, in that moment, and so much like the forgotten woman in the photo online.

But it wasn’t me who did this to her, no matter what I’d like to believe.