Chapter 3

I found Celeste alone by the coat check.

"He got to you," I said. "Four years ago. And again tonight."

"I don't know what you--"

"You kept a copy of it." I watched her eyes, not her mouth. "The batch authorization. The one with my signature forged at the bottom. People like you always keep the receipt."

Celeste's chin came up. Nothing came out of her.

I pulled a blotter off the bar -- a thin white paper strip, the kind perfumers dip to catch a scent -- and drew it through a tester of the new Ombre. I held it out.

"Smell it. In front of me. Tell me that's the real bergamot."

Celeste looked at the strip. Her nails pressed white half-moons into her own palm.

She didn't take it. She couldn't. A perfumer can't lie about a smell to another perfumer's face, and we both knew it.

"That's what I thought," I said, and lowered the strip.

"Celeste." Adrian's voice, warm again, coming up behind me. He set a hand on Celeste's shoulder. The girl went rigid. "Halvorsen's man called. He's early. I told him what we agreed." His eyes moved to me. "That there's a former employee here tonight. Unstable. That if she goes near him, she gets walked out."

The floor shifted under me. He'd already reached the one man I needed. He'd poisoned the well before I could get to it.

"And you'll back me up," Adrian said to Celeste. Not a question.

Celeste's mouth opened. Closed.

"Yes," she said, to the floor.

The blotter was still in my hand. Useless now.

Adrian smiled. "Go home, Iris. There's nothing here for you." He walked off toward the buyer, unhurried, sure of it.

I stood in the middle of the House I'd built, my witness bought back, my buyer turned against me, and let the cold move through me.

Then I closed my hand around the vial in my pocket. Still there. Still full. He didn't even know it existed.