toward the operating room door. “She might do more harm to him than good in there.”
Marcellus heard something that sounded like a growl, and his gaze snapped toward the other end of the room where, in the doorway, Etienne now stood with Chatine.
“That woman is my maman,” Etienne said in a low, threatening voice. “And she knows exactly what she’s doing.”
Cerise looked momentarily stunned by Etienne’s presence and slightly alarmed by his tone, but then she flicked her long dark hair defiantly over her shoulder and pulled her spine straight. “I have no doubt she thinks she knows what she’s doing. But I’m just saying, she might not have the experience to—”
“Did you see the scars on her face?” Etienne said, moving farther into the room. Marcellus couldn’t help but notice that his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides like pistons. Apparently, he didn’t have a good feeling about them, either.
“That’s where her circuitry used to be,” he went on, shooting a pointed look at Cerise. “From when she was a cyborg.” Etienne positioned himself in the corner and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, like I said, she knows exactly what she’s doing.”
Cerise’s mouth fell open. “Another one? She …” But the words faded on her lips, as her mind seemed to fritz and whirl.
Marcellus’s mind was whirling too as he remembered the scars that he’d briefly glimpsed on Brigitte’s face. Now that he thought about it, they looked almost identical to the scars that he’d seen on Denise’s face.
He cut his gaze to Alouette, who was chewing on her bottom lip, lost in what he assumed to be the exact same thoughts.
“I brought you some more hot chocolat.”
Marcellus glanced up to see Chatine standing in front of him, a silver flask in her hand. She unscrewed the top and filled his cup with more of the steaming liquid before walking tentatively over to Alouette.
“It’s Alouette now, right?” she asked in a voice Marcellus had never heard before. It was quiet and gentle. “Your name?”
Alouette nodded. “My father changed it from Madeline after we left the inn.”
Marcellus watched in confusion as something powerful and strangely tender passed between the two girls. Some kind of unspoken conversation that he could not even begin to understand.
“You two know each other,” he said dazedly as he suddenly remembered something Chatine had told him back at the Vallonay Policier Precinct before she was sent to Bastille. His brow furrowed, trying to recall the details. “You used to live together?”
Chatine nodded. “She stayed with my family at the Jondrette.”
Marcellus’s gaze snapped to Alouette as he thought back to that rundown inn that was now nothing more than a pile of ashes. “You lived there?”
Alouette nodded. “When I was very young. Before Hugo brought me to the sisters.”
“We … ,” Chatine began before turning to Alouette with wide, apologetic eyes. “We treated her very badly.”
A hint of a smile broke onto Alouette’s face. A silent gesture of forgiveness. Chatine filled Alouette’s cup with hot chocolat, and Alouette focused back on Cerise, who was still pacing the room. Chatine sat down next to Marcellus on the cot. Marcellus could feel Etienne’s dark eyes watching them from the other side of the room.
“So,” Marcellus said uneasily to Chatine, clutching his cup, “are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”
Chatine flashed him a playful smirk. “Whatever do you mean, Officer?”
Marcellus rolled his eyes. “You’re living with Défecteurs? I didn’t think they’d exactly be your style.”
“Actually,” Chatine said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “it turns out they really don’t like being called that.”
Marcellus snorted and then, upon realizing that Chatine was not joking, schooled his expression. “Oh. So, what do they like to be called?”
Chatine flicked her eyes toward Etienne, who was still glowering at them from the corner, looking not too unlike those guards who had boarded their voyageur on Albion. “They’re really not label people.”
Marcellus gaped at her. With the short hair, that strange white-and-gray clothing, and this new relaxed air about her, he barely recognized the girl. Then again, he’d spent most of their time together thinking she was someone else. He wondered if he’d ever truly known the real Chatine Renard at all.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Chatine asked, nervously raking a hand through her cropped hair. “You don’t like it.”
Marcellus cleared his throat. “No, I do,” he rushed to say. “A lot. I just …”
Chatine cracked a smile, and Marcellus felt his