"I can take her shopping," Margot offers. "Magazine Street has everything she needs."
"For what?" I ask.
Remy and Margot exchange a look. "We'll discuss it during planning," he says.
"No time." Remy sets his mug down. "We use what's here. Maman kept formal wear for charity events, functions at Papa's oil company. Isabella's close to the same size."
Margot stiffens slightly but doesn't argue. After a moment, she nods. "Second floor. Master suite closet. Take what you need."
The permission carries weight. Access to their mother's things feels like a small opening in the wall Margot's been maintaining.
When the last of the pain perdu disappears, Margot sets down her fork and looks between her brothers with the particular patience of a woman who runs a kitchen and therefore tolerates no nonsense.
"You two." She gestures at the plates. "You know where everything goes."
Luc opens his mouth.
"Non." She's already untying her apron. "I cooked. Isabella is a guest." A beat, aimed at Remy. "You're neither."
Remy takes the plates without argument. Luc follows with the mugs, grumbling something under his breath that earns him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.
By the time the kitchen is restored to Margot's standards, my head is full of contingency plans and questions I don't yet have answers to.
Remy leads me upstairs past the gallery, past his room, to the master suite at the end of the hall. The room is exactly as his parents must have left it—four-poster bed with antique linens, photographs scattered around the room, his mother's perfume bottles still arranged on the vanity.
It smells like lavender and old paper, preserved time captured in a space Margot hasn't been able to change.
"Here." Remy opens the walk-in closet, gestures to evening gowns and cocktail dresses organized by color. "Maman attended a lot of functions. Charity galas, oil industry events, political fundraisers. She knew how to dress for power."
I run my fingers along silk and satin, tailored jackets and elegant skirts. The silhouettes are classic—structured shoulders, clean lines, nothing that chases a trend. A wardrobe built to last decades, not seasons. Impeccably maintained, expensive without being ostentatious. The kind of clothes that don't date because they were never trying to be current in the first place.
"Why do I need any of this?" I ask. "I thought I was just providing technical input for planning."
"This one." Remy pulls out a dress—deep emerald silk, fitted bodice, subtle slit in the skirt. He doesn't answer my question, just holds the dress up, studying it. Then he looks at me. "You're going to New York."
The words land like a physical blow. "What?"
"We need your expertise. Someone who can answer technical questions and verify the work is genuine."
"But won't that let everyone who's looking for us know where I am?" I say, trying to mask my concern.
Remy nods. "Yes, but it will be in New York, not New Orleans. Easy to fly in and out from anywhere. So it's more they'll know where you were, not necessarily where you are. You can answer technical questions, verify the work is real. You're the only person who can answer those questions without raising suspicion."
"Remy—"
"I know." He sets the dress down, turns to face me fully. "I know what I'm asking. But if we send anyone else, if we fake the credentials or try to bluff our way through technical questions,these people will know. They'll walk away or worse, they'll make us disappear."
"So you want me to walk into a room full of weapons dealers selling chemical weapons."
"I want you to help us identify who's buying and shut down the network before anyone dies." His voice softens slightly. "But I won't force you. If you can't do this, we'll find another way."
I look at the dress, at him, at the impossible situation we're in. "What other way?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll find one."
The honesty in his voice tells me he means it. He'll try to find another approach even though we both know there isn't one. Not one that works as well. Not one that doesn't risk everything.
