Page 143 of Gravehouse

The chains draw tight, taking my weight until I’m hanging by the wrists, toes brushing the floor, shoulders pulling hot in their sockets. Skin splits under the cuff. I feel the facts of it without the pain, the same way I feel cold glass with a glove on.

I did this.

“Ivy.”

Asher again, somewhere past the ward and the blood, except the memory keeps going becausethere are footsteps outside the room. Two sets. One heavy, one quick. I know the second from the scrape in her heel before Camille says my name, and the latch starts to turn.

“Finally,” she mutters. “What an entrance, but at least the trigger finally happened, whatever it was.”

I ignore her rambling. Camille was the perfect puppet. Glad I never killed her.

“Since no one knew what the hell Emeric’s trigger was—what was it, by the way?” she asks, turning her face to me as the door opens and her mother steps inside.

“It was Amelie. Emeric didn’t use a word, it was an image of her own mother. One he wanted to kill.” Aléia smirks. “Poetry, really…”

“I don’t—“ I shake my head, the room refusing to hold still.

Voices overlap. Asher grabs my arm. “It’s Nonna, her counter weave broke through…”

“Love, Ivy… love is what sets everyone free. That’s why we do La Journée du Nous.”

I think over what she says. “But I don’t want to love…”

It was the easiest answer.

Nonna chuckles, pointing to Jord. “I think you do.”

“I don’t even know who I am,” I mutter, kind of annoyed.

I already cared for Nonna, loved her enough. Love means order and control. Nonna is order, Emeric is control. Leon is the foundation I always land on, Luce is the walls that keepme safe, and Punk is the security. Love is a house of order and control. What the hell would Jord be useful for?

Nonna laughs under her breath, bending to my height and placing both hands on my shoulders.

Her eyes soften, pupils dilating. “When you don’t know who you are, ask yourself how you feel. The answer will tell you who’s in control.”

Everything snaps back to the room.

I can’t move.

“Oh my God…” I whisper, eyes lifting to Asher as the whole room falls to silence. “Emeric is already dead.”

“Yeah.” Asher stares back at me. “I made sure of it.”

I fall backwards, landing on a sofa.

My whole body shakes.

Désamour isn’t in France.

It’s here. It’s been here the whole time. On Veilarath.

I dig my fingers into the upholstery, nails catching on the weave. This was Emeric’s work. He’d ask me questions, then he’dtake the answers back. He left me the facts because he needed me functional, and he stole the lines between them. The shape of the thing. The reason three houses mattered. The reason the families pretended to be separate when they were all just fingers on the same hand.

My stomach lurches.

La Maison du Mal. One machine with three heads.

The Monét line. The Delacroix line. The—God, the crest. Three sigils cut to fit each other, a puzzle I’ve been too stupid to assemble.