“I know, without a doubt, you must be a ravishing sight, but it would be nice to have confirmation of it as well.”
I eased myself into the bed. My wrist throbbed, and I’d never been more exhausted in all my life. I collapsed onto the pillows beside Alex.
“You ought to rest,” I said, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, pushing the glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“I know many people say to begin as you mean to go forward, but I promise you this, Lady Laurent, not every night of ours will end before ten o’clock.”
“No?”
“Oh, no.” He kissed my forehead and I curled alongside him, careful not to bump against his injuries. “I promise you here and now, our nights will be long and lovely. Full of kisses and starlight.”
Stars…
My dreams that night bordered on nightmares. In them, I ran through the deserted halls of Chauntilalie, searching for Alex. The air was filled with the cries of the babies and peacocks, and above it all, the triumphant cackle of Viktor, believing he’d won at last.
I tried escaping into the secret passages, tried running down stairwells and corridors.
Everywhere I turned, he was there.
I startled awake with a gasp, sodden and sweaty and blinking with confusion at the soft gray light of the room. A ray of morning sun had managed to slip through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the space enough for me to see that I was in bed alone.
Curious, I sat up, peering about the space.
I spotted Alex laid out on the chaise, attempting to read a book. Frederick must have come and gone while I dozed. Alex angled the book toward the window, catching the pages in the meager light.
“I thought you were meant to be resting,” I said, greeting him, my husband. A thrill wriggled through me at the thought. My husband.
“It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can accomplish,” he said before lowering the book to look at me. His smile was warm and bright. “Good morning, wife.”
My lips rose, warm and content. “Good morning, husband.”
His dimples flashed before he returned to his reading, absentmindedly crossing one ankle over the other.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip. Drop.
Far beneath the bones of Chauntilalie, rainwater trickled down the walls of the Laurent family crypt. The door opened and five women dressed in gauzy blush-colored robes and spangled headdresses entered, carrying with them baskets of seeds. Even at the height of spring, their breaths puffed frostily in the chilly air.
They were the Sisters of the Ardor, postulants of Arina, come to deal with the bodies of the dead.
Each deceased was laid out on a slab of marble. The polished stone trapped the cold temperatures of the crypt, helping to slow down the unpleasant realities of the decomposition process.
First Dauphine, her naked form hidden beneath a piece of silk dyed a soft lavender hue. Once the sisters had prepared her body, anointing it with oils and packing it full of sacred seeds, the fabric would be knotted around her, acting as a sort of chrysalis for all of the changes to come. The roots from the sacred seeds would have no trouble tearing through the thin silk, seeking deeper soil.
Roots were very good at trailblazing their way into the world.
Beside her lay her husband, Gerard Laurent. The Sisters had prepared a special blend of seeds for him, making sure to include dozens of Euphorbia marginatas. Already, the new duke had removed nearly every trace of snow-on-the-mountains from the grounds of Chauntilalie, heralding the start of his reign with a bower of Dictamnus albus. The white dittany blooms were everywhere around the manor, and the new ducal motto of “Perfected Loveliness” had already been warmly received by the citizens of Bloem.
Next was the old woman. Marguerite Laurent. Her life had been long. Her death—if indicated by the contusions that bloomed across her body—painful and swift.
After her came the two mysterious figures. They were both obviously Laurents, spitting images of the new duke himself, but no one could claim to know exactly who they were or how they’d come to be at Chauntilalie.
The first had died a terrible and gruesome death, and the Sister assigned his remains packed the gaping wound at his throat full of seeds, whispering a cycle of prayers over it with a visible shudder.
The last body had obviously taken a horrible beating but there was a peaceful stillness in his reposed form. The last Sister, the youngest and only a week out of her novice robes, had been assigned him.
She pulled back the silk sheet and said her first prayer.
Next came the oils, to the head, the hands, the heart.
As she traced her holy patterning over the body’s chest, she thought she felt something beneath the skin, a movement subtle and soft. She glanced toward the Sister next to her, wanting to ask guidance but scared to look foolish.
He was to be the first body she had ever prepared and she wanted to be seen as a competent custodian.
She picked up her basket of seeds and prepared to start planting them.
But as she took up her first handful, ready to strew them across the long lines of his naked form, she dropped everything.
There on the table, on the funeral slab, the dead boy’s fingers moved with a small but unmistakably alive twitch.
Writing a book is very much like planting a garden. You start with a little tiny seed of an idea, and with lots of water, sunshine, and care, amazing blooms begin to sprout.
I’m so thankful to have Sarah Landis cultivating my ideas and helping them grow. Never once have you ever thought my plots were too wild, and I’m forever grateful for your belief in me. You deserve an entire greenhouse full of campanulas （constancy, gratitude）。
I owe the grandest bouquets of light red dianthus caryophyllus （deep admiration, thanks） to my entire team at Delacorte Press for championing my books and tending to them with such diligent care. Wendy Loggia, Noreen Herits, Beverly Horowitz, Ali Romig, Casey Moses, and Carrie Andrews—you all are the most marvelous, hardworking humans, and I’m so insanely lucky to call you colleagues and friends.
So many people have early-read and cheered on Verity’s tale. Acacia （platonic love, friendship, repels ghosts!） to Kirsten Miller, Erin Hahn, Jeannie Hilderbrand, Elizabeth Tankard, Kaylan Luber, Melanie Shurtz, “Lord” Ekpe Udoh—who unknowingly let me borrow his name!—Jessica Olson, Kendare Blake, Megan Shepherd, Lauren Blackwood, Courtney Summers, Stephanie Garber, Shea Ernshaw, and all my incredibly talented Team Landis family. A special arrangement of moluccella laevis （ardent gratitude） to Jamie Sumner for your insightful sensitivity reading. You are incredible.
Amaranthus （endless love, fidelity unwithering） for Hannah Whitten. You gem. You treasure. You are my forever ride-or-die. I could not do this job without you. Thank you for letting me steal your name and give it to a ghost.
A million helianthuses （constant warmth） to every reader who has picked up one of my stories from the shelf. I’ve adored meeting you at bookstores and festivals, on school visits and Zoom calls. Your enthusiasm and love make every bit of this process a joy. I’m wildly grateful to you.
Extravagant bundles of lonicera caprifolium （I love you, steadfast and generous affection） to all of my family and friends. You’ve taught me to dream big and work hard and have given me the gift of so many stories. I would not be here without you. Extra sprigs of calendula officinalis （fidelity, adoration, helps with seeing the fairies!） for Mama, Daddy, Tara, and Carol.