Le Bleu had been quiet since their return, a silence that felt more foreboding than fortuitous. There had been no plaintive whistling. No distant laughter. She and Anaïs had taken precautions the night before, locking the bedroom door and dragging aheavy trunk in front of it. Le Bleu might be able to get at them, but they would have warning if he used Armand to do it.
Even still, she had hardly slept, and in the end, her fears had been for nothing. It was as though Bastien were biding his time until nightfall, when the fountain would fill with blood and the true horrors would be unleashed.
He certainly had a flair for the dramatic.
They expected Le Bleu to be eager to conclude this sorcery business. Surely he would take any chance to coax Mallory away, perhaps even during the burial. To do that, he’d need to take possession of Armand again.
She was counting on it.
Up ahead, the gate’s rusted hinges creaked, startling a flock of hedge sparrows from the trees.
Constantino held open the gate as the procession slipped inside. Moss squished beneath Mallory’s boots. The air was thick with the smell of damp leaves and fall-blooming witch hazel.
As the sparrows dared to return, prancing about between the stones, the pallbearers picked their way over the uneven ground, to the grave that had been dug in the far corner of the cemetery.
Julie’s coffin was laid onto the prepared ropes.
“Initiate Constantino,” Fitcher said, hardly having to pretend to act the part of the devout acolyte, “please prepare the ceremonial drink.”
Constantino graciously accepted the supplies that Anaïs had brought before stepping away from the crowd. While they waited, Pierre and Yvette gathered flowers, talking in hushed voices as they passed among the stones, and Gideon leaned against astatue of Wyrdith, using his hat to dab sweat from his brow. Anaïs lingered nearby, pretending to read the headstones even as her attention darted between Mallory and Armand. Mallory was certain her sister had not slept last night, either.
Despite their expectations, Armand had made no attempt to get Mallory alone. If anything, he’d largely been avoiding her—though when their eyes did meet, he seemed to be struggling, as if he had something he wished to say but couldn’t find the words.
“Let us begin,” said Fitcher. The sudden pronouncement, breaking the quiet, startled her.
Constantino had set cordial glasses on a silver tray. He passed them out to the gathered mourners while Fitcher recited some poetic diatribe about how the wine, which Armand had been happy to supply at Constantino’s request, symbolized the river that would carry Julie’s spirit into the land of the lost, and in partaking of this drink, they were promising to keep her memory alive in love and faith.
Something like that, anyway. Mallory wasn’t listening. While Yvette sobbed and Pierre and Anaïs sniffled and Gideon looked like he would rather be anywhere else, Mallory watched Armand from the corner of her eye, searching for a hint that he knew the truth of what had happened. Searching for a sign that would indicate whether or not he could be trusted.
When Fitcher was finished, he raised his own glass, and as one, they tipped back their drinks.
The coffin was lowered into the grave. They took turns shoveling dirt on top. While they worked, Fitcher and Constantino maintained their ruse, whispering prayers over the body. They sung low, haunting chants.
As an official headstone had not yet been made, a slab of rock was placed over the fresh grave once they were finished.
“Now we shall leave her in peace, to find her own way by the light of Velos’s lantern,” said Fitcher.
Yvette placed a chrysanthemum on the softly churned dirt, and they began the melancholy journey back to the house.
Mallory was heading toward her sister when the brush of a tentative finger nearly had her leaping from her skin.
Armand drew back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… alarm you.”
“That’s all right. Just… you know. Cemeteries tend to make a person nervous.”
His frown deepened and Mallory cringed at her fib. Cemeteries did not makehernervous, and they both knew it.
He cleared his throat. “I was hoping I might speak to you. A-alone.”
As he said it, twin splotches of pink bloomed on his cheeks. Was he thinking of their kiss? Or of how he’d tried to kill her?
Did he even know that he had tried to kill her?
The group was already halfway across the graveyard. Mallory’s instincts told her to call out to them, to tell them to wait. They’d prepared for this possibility, aware that Bastien would likely take the first opportunity to get either her or Anaïs alone… to make his final sacrifice.
But if Bastien knew she suspected the truth, the entire plan could be ruined.
She forced a smile. “Of course.”
