Page 64 of The Beautiful Ones

“O-Octavia.”

She told me in fragments, speaking when she could and writing when she could not. Octavia had stopped her from opening the study door. She had known I was inside. She had known when I escaped. Most troubling of all, she had spoken of debts as if guilt possessed an address.

“She said the others had not been forgotten,” Cécile whispered.

“The Deweys and Georges?”

She nodded.

“They will run,” I said.

Cécile wrote, WILL THAT SAVE THEM?

The question raised cold along my arms despite the heat.

“I do not think the Fairhavens mistake distance for innocence.”

We heard a door slam below, followed by the hurried tread of men crossing the lower hall. Cécile gripped my wrist.

“Stay here,” I told her.

She clung tighter.

“I am only going to look.”

The upper gallery was dark except for the candle in my hand. I moved to the balustrade and peered down into the foyer.

Judge Dewey stood beneath the chandelier in his shirtsleeves, issuing orders to a footman who had stopped pretending to obey him. Augusta descended the stairs behind Warren, both already dressed for travel. Across the hall, Reuben George argued with Monsieur Lebon while Lavinia and Philip waited beside two closed trunks.

“The river road is watched,” Monsieur Lebon said.

“By whom?” Reuben demanded. “Your own men have seen nothing.”

“No one leaves until the letter is found.”

Judge Dewey gave him a look stripped of every remnant of friendship. “You may command your servants, Étienne. You do not command me.”

The clock in the west parlor began striking midnight.

On the third stroke, every candle in the foyer burned blue.

No one spoke until the twelfth had faded.

“We leave before sunrise,” the judge said.

Reuben gathered his family and followed him toward the guest wing. Monsieur Lebon remained beneath the chandelier, staring after them with the helpless fury of a man discovering that shared guilt did not create loyalty.

I returned to Cécile.

She had climbed into bed but had not lain down. I unpinned her hair, washed the powder from her face and remained beside her until exhaustion finally closed her eyes. Even asleep, she kept one hand wrapped around the edge of my apron.

Near two in the morning, I eased the cloth from her fingers and stepped into the corridor.

The heat broke halfway to the back stairs.

It did not fade. It vanished.

My breath whitened before me. The flame atop my candle narrowed, turned blue and went out. Frost traveled over the brass cup and reached my fingers with a bite so sharp I nearly dropped it.