Read Chapter 17: The Alibi's Collapse

The guild hall had never felt so vast, so hollow, as when the bell tolled for Violetta.

Camille stood at the back, her black dress borrowed from a seamstress who asked no questions. The other perfumers filled the pews like ink bleeding into cloth, their faces obscured by veils of mourning lace. Candles guttered at the altar, casting long shadows across the empty catafalque—Violetta’s body had been claimed by her family that morning, sealed in a coffin of pale ash wood. Camille had wanted to say goodbye, to press her hand against the wood and whisper an apology that would never reach her. But Yvette had seen to the arrangements, and Camille had been told, in terms that brooked no argument, that her presence was unwanted at the viewing.

So she stood. She watched. She counted the breaths until this was over.

Laurent had wanted to come. She’d told him no—too many eyes, too many questions about why an inspector of the Sûreté would attend the funeral of a perfumer he’d never met. He’d acquiesced with a grim nod, pressing a slip of paper into her palm before she left. *The archives have yielded something. Come when you can.*

The service droned on. High Priestess Margaux, old and wavering, spoke of Violetta’s dedication to the craft, her unwavering loyalty to the guild. Camille’s hands curled into fists beneath her sleeves. Yvette sat in the front row, her head bowed so perfectly, her shoulders trembling with such precision, that Camille almost believed she was grieving. Almost.

Then the doors burst open.

A figure stood silhouetted against the grey Parisian light, ragged and breathless. A woman—thin, shaking, her dress torn at the hem, her hair wild about her face. A murmur rippled through the mourners. The woman stumbled forward, and Camille’s heart seized.

It was the prisoner. The one from the women’s prison, the one who’d sold her memories to the impostor.

“She killed her!” the woman cried, pointing a trembling finger at Camille. “I saw her! That night—Violetta’s body—she was there! I saw her leave the guild floor, her hands stained red!”

Gasps. Heads turning. Yvette rose slowly, her face a mask of shock. “What is this? Who are you?”

“A witness,” the woman said, her voice cracking. “I was in the alley below. I saw everything. This one—” she jabbed her finger toward Camille again, “—she argued with the dead woman. She threw something. Her face was bright with it.”

The room went cold. Camille’s mouth opened, but no words came. This wasn’t true. None of it. She hadn’t been near Violetta’s quarters that night—she’d been with Laurent, searching the vault, uncovering the library. But her alibi depended on the very secrets she was forbidden to speak. The hidden library. The hundred vials of lost magic. The conspirator she’d told no one about.

“I can verify where I was,” Camille said, her voice steadier than she felt. “The inspector—”

“The inspector?” Yvette cut in, eyes glittering. “You were with the police? On the night Violetta fell ill? Why would you need to speak to the police, Camille? Unless you had something to hide.”

The murmurs swelled. The woman in the torn dress wept loudly, clutching a rosary that clicked like bones.

Camille’s nose caught it then. Jasmine. Amber. Old magic. The scent came from the woman—layered beneath the smell of sweat and prison soap, so faint that only a trained nose could find it. But Camille *was* trained. And she’d smelled that exact blend on the diary pages, on the memory bottles, on the air of the vault she now knew belonged to the dead master.

*The impostor.*

“You’re lying,” Camille said, and she stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You weren’t in the alley. You were never anywhere near the guild. You’re wearing a memory that isn’t yours, wrapped in a skin that isn’t your own.”

The woman’s eyes widened—just a flicker too long, a hesitation too knowing. “She denies it!” the woman wailed to the assembly. “She denies it because she knows the truth will destroy her!”

“I know the truth because I can smell it,” Camille replied. She was close enough now to see the fine tremor in the woman’s hands, the way her gaze kept darting to the windows. “Jasmine and amber. Bloodroot. The same scent I found in the dead master’s diary. You’re not a witness. You’re the one who took her memories.”

The crowd had gone utterly still. Even Margaux had stopped mouthing prayers.

“She’s mad,” the woman hissed. “It’s the grief. The guilt. She’s seeing monsters—"

“Then prove it.” Camille pulled a small vial from her sleeve—one of the ones she’d taken from the hidden vault that night, filled with a pale shimmering liquid. “This is a tracer, made by the master herself. It reveals lies in those who wear borrowed skin.”

It was a gamble. The vial actually contained a simple saltwater solution and a few drops of dye. But the impostor couldn’t know that. No one could, except Camille and the dead.

The woman took a step back, her eyes on the vial. “Magic,” she spat. “The guild’s filthy tricks. You can’t use them to silence the truth.”

“I’m not silencing anything,” Camille said. “I’m asking the guild to open their eyes.”

She uncorked the vial and flicked a drop toward the woman. It arched through the air, catching the candlelight, and sprinkled across the impostor’s cheek.

The woman flinched. Her hand flew to her face as if burned. And there—in the space between the flicker and the mask of pain—Camille saw it. A ripple. A distortion of skin, like heat rising from cobblestones in summer. The scent shifted another tone beneath the jasmine: a deeper note, something like clove and toasted oats. A woman’s scent. Familiar.

“Who are you?” Camille whispered.

The impostor’s expression twisted into something too fast, too smooth. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she said, her voice no longer cracking with tears but low and sweet as poisoned honey. “When I finish what your mother began.”

Then she turned and fled through the open doors.

For a heartbeat, the assembly was frozen. Then Yvette screamed, “After her!” and the hall erupted into motion. But Camille did not run. She stared at the doorway, her heart hammering.

That voice. She knew that voice. She’d heard it laugh over shared bread, whisper secrets beneath candlelight, speak of dreams and fears and the future they’d build together. She’d trusted that voice with her life.

The impostor was Marie.

And Marie had just named her mother.