I snatched up my buttered croissant. “I-I’m sorry, Madame, but I’m afraid the expense of a new dress would be too much for me.” I chomped almost frantically into the flaky bread.
“Expense?” LeJeunes repeated. He gulped down coffee and then wiped his mouth. “Pas de problème. I will cover zee costs, and zis weekend you will attend zee grandest gala Paris has ever seen!”
I gulped back my bread, trying not to choke. “Sir, I could not possibly impose—”
“Nonsense!” Madame Marineaux wagged her finger at me. “I will send the dressmaker over this very afternoon. You cannot say no to new dresses.”
Dresses? Plural? Yet as I sat there, flustered and outvoted, the Marquis laughed happily. “Parfait!”
A moment later, a harried Joseph rushed into the dining room. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, as if expecting girls to appear behind every table and chair. He looked even more exhausted than before.
The Marquis waved. “Monsieur Boyer, come! Sit. Eat.”
Joseph nodded quickly, and as he darted for the table, I felt an odd twisting in my stomach. I frowned—it was a familiar feeling, yet it took me a moment to realize why.
Then it clicked. I had felt this when Oliver tested our bond at the train station. The demon had to be nearby. I whipped my gaze to the door, and sure enough, a slight, gray-suited figure lounged in the hallway beyond.
I shot to my feet. “I-I must use the necessary. Pardon me.” I wobbled a curtsy, embarrassed by the three pairs of surprised eyes yet also certain I did not want Oliver seen. Moments later, I dashed into the hall and veered sharply left. I strode away from Oliver and away from the restaurant’s view.
As I knew they would, Oliver’s footsteps clicked after me. It wasn’t until we had passed through two doorways and the hallway twisted sharply left that I slowed to a stop.
“You fool!” I turned and, grabbing his coat, yanked him to me. “They might have seen you.”
“That Joseph fellow did see me.”
My breath caught. “What? Did he recognize you?”
“No.” Oliver smirked, obviously entertained by my panic. “Why would he? We’ve never met.”
“But you’re a . . .” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You’re a demon. Can he not tell?”
“Not unless I’m doing magic. I couldn’t even sense another demon if the demon wasn’t actively tossing around spiritual energy. Like the rest of the world, all your Spirit-Hunters see is an incredibly dashing young man.” He flashed his eyebrows at me. “Besides, I was under the impression that you wanted me to meet Joseph Boyer.”
“I do want you to meet him. Just . . . just not yet.”
He scratched his chin. “So you aren’t mad at me for leaving you at the train station?”
“Well, uh . . . no,” I said at last, “though I am wondering where you have been all this time.”
He spread his arms wide. “It’s Paris, El! I’ve been everywhere. Enjoying my old haunts and finding new ones. Why, I discovered a charming bar in Montmarte, and while I was there”—he dipped toward me—“I heard about les Morts. Bloody disgusting. And bloody ambiguous.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that those missing eyes and ears could be any number of sacrificial rituals.” He tapped his chest. “And I am glad it’s not me tasked with finding the person behind it.”
“But we are tasked with that.”
“Er, why ‘we’ exactly?”
I frowned at him. “Well, the Spirit-Hunters are after les Morts, so I suppose I am too.”
“But what of Marcus—”
“He’s not here, so I will deal with him when he comes.”
“—and Elijah’s letters, your necromancy, and . . . am I forgetting anything? Oh yes.” He glowered.
“Setting me free.”
I ground my teeth. “And I will get to all that when I am good and ready. For now, Marcus isn’t here and les Morts are. If I want Joseph to help me, then I must first help him.”
“But I am good and ready now, El. I thought we were friends.”
“We . . . are.” My face scrunched up, and I realized that he was my friend. He knew more about me than even the Spirit-Hunters, and I didn’t want to lose that. And yet for all that Oliver knew of me, I knew almost nothing about him. “For a friend,” I said slowly, “you keep an awful lot of secrets. About my brother.”
He gave me a cool, sidelong glance. “And I have told you, that’s my personal business.”
“But maybe your personal business would help me understand Elijah’s letters.”
“Well, you could make it easier for the both of us if you simply gave me those letters.” He bowed toward me. “I could take them, you know. But I haven’t.”
Now it was my turn to gaze at him sidelong. “Why not, if it’s so easy?”
For a moment he did not reply, and I could see in the shifting of his pupils that he was rummaging through various replies. At last his eyes narrowed and he declared, “I haven’t stolen the letters because