Seleste, Then

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO

" S eleste," Cal murmured without looking up from his notes.

She shook away the salacious thoughts that had slipped into her mind as they worked when she paused to watch him.

He looked up, a wry smile on his face. "You have to stop looking at me like that if you want me to remain honourable."

Frowning at him, Seleste adjusted the collar of her dress, abominably tight against her throat. She hated the fashion of Merveille. "Perhaps we should invite your betrothed into our shenanigans as chaperone." The moment the icy words left her mouth, she regretted them. But to her surprise, Cal chuckled.

"Catherine would sit over there"—he pointed the end of his quill at a lone chair in the corner of their room in a nondescript inn—"and cheer us on."

"I highly doubt that," Seleste argued. "What sort of woman desires to be in a love triangle? They're despicable." Gods , she sounded like an adolescent witchling. Love triangle ? It made her want to vomit.

"She'd agree with you there as well." He set his quill down and folded his hands. "You forget that neither one of us agreed to this marriage. And while there might be three hearts involved in this scenario, there is love between only two, and neither of those involves Catherine." Head tipping to one side, he mocked a frown. "Technically, four hearts," he amended. "Catherine knows all about you, and I know all about her Yvette."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

"I stand by my principles, regardless. Unless the betrothal is retracted, I will stick to my fantasies."

To her chagrin, he smiled again. "And I'll stand by your principles, so long as you keep those fantasies off your face whilst looking at me."

Seleste was, for once, glad her Sisters were nowhere near. Sorscha would cackle endlessly. Aggie would smirk behind her cup, delighting in the tea unfolding before her. While Winnie would lecture her about the importance of propriety.

Sometimes she thought Winnie must have a secret, unhinged life none of them knew about. No one could be that rigid.

About this, though, Seleste would be rigid. It wasn't only that she didn't want to be the paramour —no matter how accepted such a position was by the beau monde . It was also her desire not to degrade Cal or even Catherine. Most of all, it was the fact that she was a witch with an incredibly long life ahead of her and a hidden magic that most thought had been eradicated during the Witch Trials.

When their case was over, she and Cal would have to be over. Again.

"Thank you," she finally muttered, determined to focus on the task at hand. "Perhaps we should retire. It's getting late."

Cal glanced out the window behind her at the Strawberry Moon, high in the sky. "Perhaps you're right. De Montfort's symposium will begin precisely at midday, and we need to procure a Société de Guerre mask and cape for you."

" Société de Guerre?" He hadn't yet revealed the name of his secret society. " What a peculiar name."

Cal rose and began rifling through one of his bags. "It's something to do with the founding members' shared past. No one really knows the complete origin."

"And you all wear masks?"

He pulled his mask out of the bag, holding it aloft. "And capes."

This was one of those times Seleste wished he knew about her powers—how easily she could conjure a copy of his mask and cape for herself. Alas, she was a danger to him and his reputation enough as it was.

"Shall I take the floor this time?"

For the entire journey from Bowery to Merveille, Cal had slept on the ship's floor of their cabin, rolling around every night with the toss of Mer Noir's waves.

"Don't be ridiculous." Cal began taking off his waistcoat and reached for the buttons of his shirt. "I'll gladly join you in the bed though. As a perfect gentleman, of course."

Seleste scoffed and Cal flashed her a toothy grin. "I'll believe that the moment all The Void's gods and goddesses come down and sing a chorus."

Cal laughed, blessedly leaving his pants on, though his chest was tantalisingly bare. "I like to believe all the tales of Hespa's chosen are true." He spread a blanket down on the floor next to the rickety bed. "It's a shame Lord and Lady Magie De La Nuit's daughters have been written over as some myth."

Seleste's heart seized. Seleste and her Sisters' foremothers had been painted as nothing more than a hearthtale—childish and unholy—since they were little girls. Perhaps before. The realm at large believed Talan, Hissa, Monarch, and Belfry to be a legend. A depiction of lost, Hollow children in search of the Goddess Three to become Hallowed. For no god and goddess would desecrate Hespa by bearing children not chosen by Her.

With a small grunt, Cal laid out flat on the blanket, crossing his ankles and looking up at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head. "How could anyone believe their love, the great Lord Night and Lady Magic, bringing children into The Void is unholy? What is more holy than that?"

Seleste couldn't respond, not past the lump in her throat. How could he be so perfect for her and so destined not to be hers? Humming her agreement rather than attempting to speak, she rose and unbuttoned her dress, discarding it over a chair. Cal went rigid as she walked to the bed in her shift, but he dutifully kept his eyes on the ceiling.

"Goodnight, Seleste," he whispered moments before his snores filled their small room.

"Goodnight, my love," she whispered back, long after he'd fallen asleep and long before she did.

The crowd was unexpected.

Cal must have had a similar thought, for he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his face, leaning down to whisper in Seleste's ear as they walked, "Dr. de Montfort's symposiums never have such a turnout."

Pushing forward through the throng, Seleste adjusted the mask tucked under her arm beneath her cloak. "I see some sort of peculiar contraption on the platform," she whispered back, just loud enough to be heard over the din. "Snag one of those flyers, maybe it will tell us more."

She wasn't certain if it was mere curiosity driving them to learn more about the symposium itself, or if it was the unsettling charge in the air. Cal took her suggestion, snatching a flyer from a pageboy, the pair of them pausing to read it.

Dr. James de Montfort's Open Air Symposium:

Anatomical Peculiarities

Featuring a historical demonstration,

Never before seen surgical prowess

that will beguile all

"I haven't the foggiest idea what he's plotting," Cal muttered. "Something isn't right." He looked from the flyer to the platform. "I've only seen that mechanism one other place."

"I'm assuming you mean the very viper's den we plan to break into momentarily? "

Cal nodded grimly. The deep underbelly of the Société de Guerre ' s more sinister side.

Just then, the noise of the crowd began to taper off, all of those in attendance turning to give their full attention to the man taking his place on the platform. With grey hair and silver beard, paired with his dapper clothing, Seleste never would have guessed the man to be a brilliant surgeon. She supposed they couldn't very well walk around in leather aprons splattered with blood like the butchers they were called, but she had to admit it was the image she'd had in mind.

Dr. James de Monfort raised both arms, spread wide in a congenial welcome to the crowd gathered there for him—for his beguiling demonstration. "Good day to you all, and thank you for coming to my Anatomical Peculiarities Symposium."

The audience politely clapped as the air around them seemed to still.

"I have chosen this venue out of doors and under the open sky for my demonstration because it is not one for the faint of heart. In any case, I believe it is a moment that will alter History itself."

Seleste's pulse quickened. Logically, she knew it was just a turn of phrase, but it was hard to ignore, as it was the Sisters Solstice's duty to alter History.

Cal was rigid next to her.

"First," Dr. de Montfort called out, "I would like to demonstrate what the mechanism you see behind me was designed to do on a smaller scale."

He motioned for someone off to the side, who approached carrying a limp, white object. The crowd inhaled sharply as one, realisation dawning on them. It was a dead rabbit. Several mothers clamped hands over their children's eyes or turned and fled with them altogether.

"What we have done here," Dr. de Montfort said intelligibly as he unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and began rolling them up, "is harness the power of fire, of lightning, to shock life into returning to the dead."

Everyone stilled. Even the birds ceased their chirping.

The nameless assistant laid the rabbit on the wooden slat of the mechanism, and Dr. de Montfort approached. They all watched in fraught silence and horrified awe as he connected two prongs of some kind that looked, at a distance, like eating utensils into the rabbit's flesh.

"Now," The doctor's voice rang out, his excitement and pride evident, "when I flip this lever, you will see History in the making!"

With a flourish, the lever was flipped, and two jolts of lightning shot into the rabbit. The stench of singed fur filled the charged air. And the rabbit twitched. The crowd gave a collective gasp.

Another flip of the lever, and the rabbit's head swivelled. Murmurs broke out across the gathered, but Dr. de Montfort spoke over them.

"Life can be restored with this mechanism! Think of the possibilities! Ones that are already within our grasp!" He waved another assistant forward, who wheeled in a long wooden table, a form atop it, covered in a white sheet.

"No…" Cal breathed out.

The surgeon whipped the sheet off with a flourish to reveal a corpse. A startle went through the crowd in a wave, beginning with those closest to the platform—the corpse—and pulsing outward .

"Apologies for the less-than-ideal scenario for those of weak constitution," de Montfort said as he pulled out a scalpel, "but it is imperative that we have a very fresh specimen. This man was brought to the morgue this very morning. A John Doe, I'm afraid. Died from an enlarged thyroid."

Cal was as pale as the sheet that had shrouded the corpse. "Cal?" Seleste tugged at his cloak.

His face was stricken when he turned to her. "This is what I saw down there."

"Beneath Société de Guerre ?"

But her words cut off when the surgeon bent over the corpse and sliced down his sternum, a spray of blood splattering his white shirt and grey waistcoat. A lady next to them fainted, and several others gasped. Seleste could only think that he now looked more like the butcher image she'd had in mind.

As he used a bone saw and rib shears, shards of the corpse's bones sprayed into the air. Finally, de Montfort set the tools aside, and the surgeon reached into the man's chest cavity with his bare hands, pulling free a heart.

Glossy and dripping, de Monfort held the heart up before strapping it to his mechanism and inserting the small lightning rods. "Watch closely!" Without realising it, everyone scooched forward in rapt attention.

The surgeon flipped the lever, lightning burst, and the heart beat once. A preternatural stillness settled over the crowd as de Montfort pushed the lever back down, prepared to throw it again.

When he did, lightning shot into the dead organ again, and the heart pumped. And pumped. And pumped. Someone screamed, but Seleste was counting the beats as she knew most of the crowd was, too.

Thirteen. The heart pumped thirteen times before it stilled again.

Cal pulled at her hand, tugging her to the side of the crowd, away from the horrid, captivating display on the platform. "We have to hurry," he whispered when they reached the alley next to the platform. "I don't know how long his discussion will be."

He was shaking slightly, and she pulled him to a stop. "Are you all right?"

"I–I don't know." He pulled out his plague doctor mask and slipped it on, Seleste doing the same. In unison, they pulled their hoods lower and slunk through the alley toward Société de Guerre .

Société de Guerre was dark and dreary, the scents of myriad chemicals and dust stinging Seleste's nose. Wall sconces lined the eerily quiet corridors, but their flickering did little to chase away the gloom. The upper floors didn't exude anything sinister, they were merely filled with moody, academic rooms befitting a secret society of learned men and women.

But there was something in the air. Something just the wrong side of peculiar. Lingering, as if it was drifting up from below. From the restricted lower level they were standing at the door of.

"Goddess' bones," Cal muttered as he stood from where he was crouched at the door. "I can't get the lock, even with these picks. "

"Keep a lookout." She shoved him over. "I'll do it."

He paused for half a breath to eye her with an equal measure of surprise and delight. "Why should I not be shocked you know how to pick locks?"

Seleste didn't answer. She was too busy snatching the lock picks from him and shoving them in the lock. Though their father had taught them to pick locks as children—much to their mother's dismay—only Sorscha and Aggie seemed to have retained the gift. Seleste wasn't having any more luck with it than Cal had.

"Check the other hall," she whispered harshly. "I think I heard something!"

Cal's face broke into alarm and he darted around the corner just long enough for Seleste to use her magic to unlock the door. She was opening it slowly when Cal returned, face flushed.

"I didn't see any– You got it open!" He moved to kiss her in celebration, catching himself a hairsbreadth from her lips, shifting to drop a chaste kiss to her cheek awkwardly instead. "Well done."

One lone gaslamp shone on the wall, its flickering flame doing little to light the staircase. Together, they descended into the belly of the beast.

"Pull your mask back down," Cal whispered through his as he adjusted it back in place.

Seleste did as instructed, wishing it was easier to see through the blasted thing. How were physicians expected to treat plague patients, or scientific men expected to conduct experiments if they couldn't see out of the goggles or past the obscenely long leather beak?

They descended the last step, cautious. Cal was fairly certain most everyone was attending the symposium or assisting with it, but there was always a chance a straggler could be in the basement.

Blessedly, there was no one in sight. Only a large mechanism identical to the one on Dr. de Montfort's platform, save for its size. A massive replica. Cal was shaking his head, plague doctor mask making him look like a giant, disgruntled crow.

"It wasn't this large when I came down here a moon ago—the mechanism."

In unison, they rounded the structure from either side. When they reached the front of it, Seleste put a hand to her chest, backing up, and Cal cursed. A corpse sat slumped in the wooden chair, emaciated chest strapped in place.

"Goddess above," Cal uttered. "It— I think this is Lord Nicolas Fontaine."

"I don't know who that is," Seleste whispered, unable to tear her eyes from the corpse. Why didn't it smell? The sickly sweet scent of death was hardly present at all.

"The duke's son."

Her attention snapped to Cal. "Next on the list… But this—" She gestured toward the poor lord. "This is obvious. Surely everyone will know now that these are murders." Her cunning snapped so much information together at once that she felt dizzy.

Cal lept to steady her. "Are you all right? We should go. I shouldn't have brought you here."

But Seleste waved him off, scowling behind her leather crow's beak. "It's not my delicate constitution, Cal," she explained. "This is too obvious. Unless Lord Nicolas died of some seemingly natural cause or illness and these men took him from the morgue as they did the subject at the symposium. We need to look into the circumstances of his death. Dr. de Montfort said the subjects needed to be fresh."

She moved closer to the corpse, inspecting it. "There doesn't seem to be much decay present. That leads me to believe his emaciated chest was present prior to death." She turned to Cal, her boring black skirts swishing with the movement. "What poisons remain?"

Cal pulled the list from his pocket and smoothed it out on a cluttered worktable, inspecting it in the light of a lamp. "This would all be a lot easier if they were in order," he muttered, his voice muffled by the mask. "We'd know who was being targeted and we could decode the names."

"We will have several connected at this point. We should be able to look into the faux names now that we have a distinct poison connected to each. This name here next to arsenic, it has to be your father, and so forth."

Cal nodded resolutely, his mask bobbing, and ticked off the names of the remaining poisons.

" Belladonna . Irregular heartbeats, nausea, hallucinations," Cal stated. "It slowly drives one mad?—"

"All of which would lead to emaciation. We need to learn his official cause of death."

"That might be difficult."

"Why is that? He's the son of the duke."

"Ah, but he's been in Sager Asylum, a home for the insane, for the last two years. Likely, the duke doesn't even know yet what's happened to his son."

Or he wouldn't be strapped to an experimentation device beneath Société de Guerre.

Seleste's earlier suspicions were niggling at the back of her head. If the heir to the dukedom had been declared mad, her fears might be entirely unfounded… "Cal, would Lord Nicolas still have become duke, even though he'd gone mad?"

Cal made to stroke his chin, his hand landing on a mask instead. "Yes. Peerage demands blood relation. The duke has no other sons, only three daughters. Lord Nicolas would have inherited and been aided in his seat by…" He paused, considering. "I believe in the case of madness or physical impairment, it is the duke's physician who takes up the mantle to help him make decisions, et cetera ."

Seleste winced behind her mask. "To Sager Asylum, then."

But she feared she already knew what they would discover there.

Halfway up the stairs, Cal paused. "Wait here. I'll be right back." And he rushed back down into the basement.