I slowed my momentum.

“Uncross your ankles!”

I did so.

“I didn’t say spread your legs,” he shouted. “You’re Virtue, not some Pigalle harlot!”

My mother snarled something I couldn’t hear and the man blanched. “Please keep your knees together, Mademoiselle de Troyes,” he said, tone contrite. “Otherwise the audience will see up your skirts.”

He nodded to the musicians, and they began to play. Taking a few swift breaths, I inhaled deeply, and then I sang.

For the first verse, I was alone on the stage, but then the dancers made their way out from the wings. They did not make it far before Monsieur Johnson called a halt. “Softer, mademoiselle,” he said to me. “This is not the theatre.”

We started and stopped another dozen times, while the man shouted instructions and criticism, keen to have perfection from the professionals before he brought in the untutored ladies of the court. The rough plank of the swing was hard, and my bottom grew numb even as my back began to ache.

Would the mark on the castle move if the spell were performed again, I wondered. And what would I do if it did?

“Again!”

The map spell had given me clues to how Anushka was achieving immortality, but I was at a loss of what to make of them. I was certain the mark at the castle had been the living, breathing witch, but that didn’t bring me much closer to discovering her identity. I was sure Marie knew who she was, but I was just as sure she wouldn’t volunteer the information, especially to me. If I could get a strand of her hair, it was possible I could take the knowledge from her mind with magic, but getting the hair would be no mean feat, given I hadn’t so much as seen her since our first meeting.

“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.

Twenty-Eight

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.

“Mostly ballerinas,” I said, making a note next to Estelle’s name. “But some of them are sopranos.”

“Like you.”

I nodded, moving on to the next portrait. There were dozens in the room – the task was going to take forever.

“Cécile?”

I heard the question in his voice, but I wasn’t ready to talk about the realization that was twisting through my stomach. “I know,” I said. “Let’s finish this, and then… And then we’ll discuss what we’ve discovered.”

We circled the room, then went around again with the ladder. But even the effort of clambering up and down the rungs wasn’t enough to drive away the chill that prickled my skin every time we found a portrait matching a name on the list.

Only when I was certain we’d examined the name and face of every one of the two hundred years’ worth of paintings did I finally sit cross-legged in the center of the room, my skirts pooled around me and the annotated list on the wooden floor. “Help yourself to a drink from the cart,” I said, my eyes fixed on the undeniable truth on the paper. The last ten names on my list were represented by portraits in the foyer, and every last one of them was wearing my necklace.