Page 58 of Fire to the Stars

Sellecastel is one terrible example of that. Bourlin, too. Even Papa dismissed the odds, with so many pastures between properties.

Finally, Angéline finishes sorting her papers. “No mention of Gérard Dupont yet.”

“Could he have gone someplace else?”

“Unlikely. He should arrive before Ascension Day.”

Hmm. “Abeldidmention he seems the type to enjoy a celebration.”

“Gérard will be here, mark my words. If Hanna du Fay claimed it, I believe her.”

After we exchange goodbyes, I make my way outside. The door falls shut behind me. My knees weaken to the point that I lean against the cold bricks to stay upright.

Answers. I need more answers to decide my next move, but I don’t know which questions to ask. Another dragon seemed a solid place to start—maybe he knows something about the curse that I don’t. But if I can’t find him, how does that help me?

A chilly breeze sweeps through the street. Even the winter wildflowers shiver from the force. The city’s shine has worn off, the buildings dull under hazy cloud cover. I pull the fur-lined hood over my head to blend in with the rest of the bundled crowd.

The sorrow I swallowed last night pounds in my head, so thick and heavy I can hardly think. Assassins. Abduction. Abel’s journal. It’s all too much. Diu’s magic is shoving me toward death with the force of the Tordou River, and I can’t swim to shore.

I hug myself as I walk through Jardincourt’s winding streets, killing the hours with window-shopping and petting the city’s many alley cats. Now that being near Abel is more of a threat than a drug, his proximity terrifies me. If he learns I’m a dragon,he’ll bring in a resident slayer to help kill Gérardandme. I’ll die in a crater, surrounded by seventeen centuries’ worth of bloodstains.

I need help. I need sleep powder. I needtime.

I need the Dames Blanches.

Anne-Sophie taught me how to find a sister in an unfamiliar place: Check lampposts for unusual ornaments. Specific ornaments are signal items that only the Dames Blanches recognize. They mark sister-owned establishments. It sounds simple, but sisters operate more elusively than people think. They change the signal item if they think the information has been leaked.

Hours pass. Countless lampposts. No pattern to be found—until I swipe a tear with my glove and a familiar glimmer catches my eye. A verdigris lamp, with cloudy, smoke-stained glass, sports a silver ribbon tied into a bow. That’s the fourth one I’ve seen. The store beside it: Le Miroir d’Ivoire.

A fortune teller.

A sick laugh escapes my lips. Me? Inquiring about the future? Diu loves to dangle things I cannot have.

With a steadying breath, I turn the door handle.

Bells chime above me. As I let the door fall shut, I use a little sleight of hand to flip theOpensign toClosed.

Crimson curtains block out the daylight. Multihued glass candleholders bleed colored light into the violet wallpaper. Cherrywood shelves boast milky quartz pendants, shamrock charms, and teacups and leaves. Oil paintings of fawnas rest against the wall behind a paint-smeared front desk. An easel props a half-finished close-up of a buck’s soft face, the unfinished flowers sketched with charcoal.

“Bonjour,” says an alluring voice.

A young woman emerges from behind the beaded curtain that partitions the front and back room. Her eyelids are dusted with a gold shimmer, her bow-tie lips painted glossy pink. A blanket of red curls spills from the grass-green veil covering her head. Quartz teardrops line the hem above her brow.

Appearances don’t fool me. This is a criminal’s den. I’m careful to block her line of sight to the sign I flipped toClosed.

“Bonjour,” I reply. Then wait.

“Comment allez-vous?” she asks.How are you?

The ancient code phrase for the Dames Blanches moves past my lips for the first time in months.

“Je me défends.”I defend myself.

Her chin dips. “Sister. Your name?”

The cursed blood in my veins runs hotter under her scrutinizing gaze. If she sees what I am—what I’m trying to hide—she’ll sell my name to a slayer in a heartbeat. It won’t matter if I escape in the moment. Knowing the Dames Blanches and their swift communication network, even sisters I’ve never met will learn my name. But I can’t give this woman just any name. The Dames Blanches keep a list of active sisters. It has to be a realone.

“Anne-Sophie Travers,” I lie.