It was only as I was about to close the drawer again that I noticed something was off about the depth of the space. A quick inspection showed me how to pop the false bottom up, revealing a stack of age-darkened letters hidden beneath. A clever place to hide something from high-minded servants.

Turning my attention back to the letters, I skimmed through them. They were from Cécile’s father to her mother, all written in the five-year period following their separation, and each and every one of them pleading with her to come join her family. Questions as to why she changed her mind about accompanying him. Words begging her to come to Goshawk’s Hollow, describing how much he and their children missed her. Desperate sentences explaining that he would sell the farm and bring the children back to Trianon, if only she would answer his letters.

In the last year, they decreased in frequency, but the plea never changed – right up to the point they stopped. Was that when she finally answered him, I wondered? Was that when she said no? Or, after five years of pleading, had he finally realized it was hopeless? And what did it mean that she had kept these letters all these long years? Were they trophies like the love letters I’d found, or deep down, did Genevieve really care?

I thought about taking the letters to show to Cécile, but something stopped me. How could seeing written evidence of her father’s unanswered pleas to her mother do anything but hurt her? She had enough to deal with without me digging up old wounds, so I replaced them in their hiding spot.

Downstairs, I wandered through the great room, the parlor, the kitchen, and even poked my head in the cellar before stepping inside the small, windowless study I found under the stairs. Expanding my ball of light, I started going through the contents of the desk, sorting through uninteresting correspondence, invitations to parties, sheaves of opera music, and stacks of bills, all of which she seemed to pay on time.

Then my eyes lighted on a small safe bolted to the floor in the corner. It was made of solid steel with a modern-looking combination bolt. I was loath to put my ear against the toxic metal, but there was nothing else for it if I wanted to get inside. Ignoring the itching burn, I listened for the sounds of the tumblers falling as I slowly rotated the dial, and within moments, I had it open. I’d expected to find jewelry, but instead my eyes landed on stacks of ledgers. I began flipping through them, my jaw all but falling open at what I found.

Genevieve de Troyes was a wealthy woman in her own right.

I read through the pages detailing balances of her accounts, investments, and property holdings. She owned no less than sixty percent of the Trianon Opera House, and parts of several of the smaller houses in the city. All of it was held through a company of which she was the sole owner, the fact of which seemed to be hidden by layers of lawyers and paperwork. Nearly all of it she inherited from her mother – Cécile’s grandmother – who had owned it all as far back as the records went. Genevieve was rich, even by my standards, yet she pretended to be entirely dependent on the Marquis for money. Which begged the question of why?

When Cécile first came to Trollus, I’d had her mother thoroughly investigated by those in my employ, and none of them had turned up this information. Which meant it was an extremely well-guarded secret. So well guarded, in fact, that her own daughter didn’t even know. Locking the safe, I retreated back up the stairs to check on Cécile.

She hadn’t so much as stirred. The room was warm from the glowing coals of the fireplace, so I gingerly removed my coat, feeling the bump of something heavy in my pocket as I did so. The book. I’d forgotten about it.

Extracting the small volume, I set it on Cécile’s desk and settled on the chair. It had been beneath Catherine’s body when I’d lifted her up, the only thing that had kept it from burning. At the time, I’d only paid enough attention to it to determine it wasn’t Anushka’s grimoire before shoving it in my pocket, but now, I decided to take a closer look.

Inside the front cover was a piece of parchment that had been folded many times over. I recognized Cécile’s looping handwriting, my eyes taking in a list of names and dates. The most recent was that of Genevieve’s mother, but none of the others were familiar. There was also a folded map of Trianon. The fire couldn’t have touched it, but there were tiny burn marks all over the map. None of it made any sense to me, but it must have been important for Catherine to steal it away from Cécile.

The book itself was full of spells. I read quickly, grimacing at the dark and bloody nature of the magic, until I discovered a spell intended to find a missing person. A spell requiring a map.

My father’s minion had said that Cécile was performing blood magic and I hadn’t wanted to believe it. But what I was looking at was undeniable proof that he’d been telling the truth. Picking the map up, I counted the marks. “How many times did you perform this spell, Cécile?” I asked, having felt her wake.

She hesitated. “Once. All the marks came from the same casting.” Climbing slowly out of bed, she walked behind a dressing screen, emerging moments later in a green velvet wrap.

“Who are these women?” I asked, watching her walk toward me, flashes of bare leg showing with each step. “What does your grandmother have to do with Anushka?”

She sat on the edge of the desk, knees brushing against mine. “My grandmother was one of her victims.” She toyed with the sash holding her wrap in place. “I don’t know exactly how, but Anushka used their deaths to maintain her immortality.”