“Are you sure, Madame?” Sylvie’s eyes widened.

Remi nodded. “Yes, please. It will help to ease my nerves.”

“Much obliged.” Sylvie bowed her head, halfway out the door as she did so.

In truth, Remi was glad to give her time alone. Sylvie was the one who discovered Edgar, after all, and she was in worse shape by far. Her pale, doe-eyed expression burned itself into the back of Remi’s mind, synonymous with the memory of the entire morning.

All the more reason I must be steadfast, she thought to herself. She was the Madame of the House, after all. It was her responsibility to set an example, though she felt lacking in that regard. Remi wondered how Tante Beline managed to keep her attitude as neat and precise as her cuticles.

The walk to the study was a short trek, and Remi did her best to hide the misery that lingered beneath her sunken mask. Already, she could smell the ripe, pungent scent of death in the foyer. It lingered, staining the air with its thickness. With a steadying breath, she clung to the vestiges of her composure as she approached a small group by the stairs. They were a bright spot in an otherwise darkened room. The foyer was dim, washed in dark wood, and decorated with ornate rugs and dying plants in ceramic pots. Remi only hoped no one would pay any mind to the cobwebs in the corners.

Or the dust on the mantle, she thought woefully.

“Oh, Remi, darling.” One of the waiting guests was her Tante Beline; the other was her cousin, Elise, who held a bright kerchief to her nose. They both looked up from the gentleman speaking to them, diverting his attention. Remi felt her knees quake beneath her, one wrong step from collapsing altogether. The older gentleman with them was dressed differently from les gens d’armes, but he was all business just the same.

“You must excuse me,” Remi started shakily. “I did not mean to make you wait.”

“At least you’re here now,” Beline said, clearly irritated. “Monsieur, this is my niece, Madame Leone.”

The blue-eyed gentleman appraised Remi for a moment as if itemizing every feature in the span of a few short seconds. Whether he was pleased, Remi could not say. “Inspector Marceau, Madame Leone,” he offered. Up close, he was similar in age to Edgar, though his hair was snow white, and he kept his beard trimmed closer to his skin. “Your oncle informed me that he would identify the body for you. Is that correct?”

Remi nodded, though she was surprised to hear it. Right to the point, then.

“The maid told us what happened,” Beline clarified, holding Remi’s questioning gaze. “About your illness. He thought it would be best to take care of it in your stead.”

Remi was accustomed to her aunt’s brusque nature, but Inspector Marceau was not. It surprised her to hear him deliver a similarly harsh tone. “Traditionally, next of kin would identify the body.”

“But she is clearly ill, Monsieur,” Beline argued.

Elise, her cousin, rolled her reddened eyes and pulled at her mother’s arm. “Maman, we must not interfere.”

“But your father⁠—”

Elise pulled her mother away as they bickered, giving Remi space to speak privately with the inspector.

“I understand it is difficult, Madame, but you are his wife,” the inspector said, “and the inheritor of this estate. I must ask that you identify his body for our records.”

Remi was silent for a moment. Her stomach dropped at the notion.

“I would be willing to accompany you inside, Madame.” The inspector’s blue eyes reminded her of the boundless kindness she often saw in Edgar’s. It was comforting enough that she agreed.

“That would be most gracious of you.”

“This way, then.”

Inspector Marceau was a head shorter than Remi, but he was taller than most men she knew. He wasn’t familiar to her, and the cut of his fine suit made her wonder if he was from the mainland. There was only one tailor on their island; the difference in craftsmanship was evident.

Remi did not have a chance to ask; they approached the study within seconds.

Somehow, she’d hoped it would take longer to reach Edgar. There wasn’t time to prepare for the smell that waited; it still crept into the hall like tendrils of rotting ivy. Fortunately, it didn’t surprise her as much as before, and she wasn’t doubled over by the wall, emptying her stomach of her dinner from the previous night. Being in the company of Inspector Marceau made it easier to ignore the scent. Even if she was withering on the inside.

“The doctor and the lawyer are waiting inside with your oncle,” he said, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded and followed him in, the creak of the door alerting the gentlemen in the room. Their voices hushed as Remi and the inspector entered, and she found herself facing down her uncle from the other side of Edgar’s desk.

They looked like schoolboys caught in mischief.

“Did we interrupt, gentlemen?” the inspector asked.

“What in God’s name…?” Remi’s uncle said angrily, abandoning his post beside the doctor and lawyer. A white sheet stretched along the ground, covering the body that rotted beneath. “I told you I would identify the body.”

“And so you have.” The inspector nodded. “However, it is Madame Leone’s responsibility to verify. She is, after all, his wife.”

Remi’s uncle turned red. As he opened his mouth to speak, the lawyer stepped between him and the inspector.

“Enough now, Arnaud,” Lamotte said. He nodded toward Remi, acknowledging her presence. “The inspector is correct. We mustn’t get in the way. It is the law.”

“What is there to inspect?” her uncle argued. A vein popped bright red against his forehead. “He died of heart failure. Didn’t you hear the doctor?”

Remi glanced past Lamotte to the man hovering over Edgar. He seemed distant, as if dreaming. The island’s doctor was practically a corpse himself. She wondered how he could identify anything anymore; he’d bumped into every surface in the room upon his arrival. Surely, the thickness of his spectacles was no mere coincidence.

Edgar deserves a bit of peace before he is prodded like cattle, she thought sadly.

“Monsieur, I implore you,” Inspector Marceau said loudly. “You must conduct yourself appropriately. A man has died here.”

“I am aware of that,” Arnaud snapped.

Remi sensed the growing tension, and seeing Lamotte’s concern spurred her into action. “Uncle, thank you for your kindness. You spared me a great deal of grief. I only wish to be helpful to the inspector and perhaps have a moment with Edgar if you are willing to give us some privacy. I know how protective you are of me, and I am grateful.”

Arnaud’s mustache twitched. His gaze broke from Marceau’s as he took Remi in. Her words appeared to calm him enough, and the relief that followed was instant. She’d never seen him so riled up before, though she imagined it was part of his own grief. She wondered if some small part of him felt responsible for her circumstances, given that the marriage was his idea.

“Very well,” her uncle said. “I could use some fresh air.”

“As could I,” Lamotte added, his usual good temper replaced by somberness. They were good friends, Lamotte and Edgar. It didn’t surprise Remi that he would be upset.

“Thank you.” She nodded.

“Come along, doctor. Let’s all have a bout of fresh air.” Lamotte’s voice startled the dreaming man. He looked around, confused, but followed the others from the room without question. He was quicker to leave than the other two despite his tendency to topple things.

Eager old man, she thought as the study doors closed behind them.

Inspector Marceau wasted no more time, already crouched beside the white sheet as he beckoned her to join him. She held her composure, gripping tightly at the closure of her dressing robe.

“I just need you to identify him. That is all,” he reassured her. His voice was gentle, like a father speaking to a child. “Are you ready, Madame?”

“Yes.” Her stomach disagreed.

When the sheet moved, Remi swallowed the sickness that climbed up the back of her throat. It burned all the way down.