Die Once More by Amy Plum

eyes dart over to meet my own, and I feel my face redden. “Yeah, must be the fact that I’m back in Paris.”
    â€œTold you he missed us,” Ambrose says, and pulls Charlotte to him in a powerful side-hug.
    It is a beautiful wedding, held in the stained-glass jewel box that is La Sainte-Chapelle. Charlotte wears a vintage wedding gown from the 1940s, the era she was human. And Ambrose wears a custom-made tux, since not a shop in Paris had one big enough to fit him.
    Charles has brushed his burgundy Mohawk down and even forgoes eyeliner in order to give his sister away. He is as radiant as the bride—his new life suits him well.
    After blessing the wedding, the revenant priest steps aside and lets Gaspard officiate—which he does with a shaking voice and tears in his eyes. And when he says to kiss the bride, Ambrose lets out a whoop and swings Charlotte around before planting the kiss of the century on her rosy lips.
    There isn’t a dry eye in the house.
    On my way out, I spot Arthur and Georgia sharing a private moment behind a column in the lower chapel. Kate had told me they were on-again, off-again. This must be an on day.
    Back at La Maison, the reception is in full swing, with Faust and Uta hitting the dance floor before anyone else has their jackets off. He picks her up and flips her around in some kind ofcrazy swing number that I’d never imagined he could do. Faustino Molinaro is a never-ending surprise.
    As the rest of the guests file into the ballroom, Ambrose lifts Charlotte up onto the dais and stands on the ground beneath her as she clinks her spoon on a champagne glass. She seems lit up from within, like there’s a thousand-watt bulb beneath that creamy skin. This is everything she’s ever wanted. For decades. The room falls silent, and everyone turns to face her.
    â€œAmbrose and I said we weren’t going to allow speeches. We’ve all known each other too long, and there are way too many incriminating stories that could surface.”
    Laughter rolls over the crowd, and winks and nudges are exchanged.
    â€œBut I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here today. Welcome, kindred. I especially want to thank the members of La Maison . . . my house. Gaspard, Jules, Vincent . . . and Ambrose. You were already here when Jean-Baptiste recovered Charles’s and my bodies and invited us to stay. You have been my fathers, my brothers, my world. I have never known better men than you. And now I am marrying one of you.”
    â€œIt’s a done deal, baby,” Ambrose remarks, looking up at her with a wink.
    â€œFinally!” Charlotte teases, nudging his broad shoulder with her hip. Everyone laughs.
    She lifts her glass. “Thank you for joining us on this day where our joy is truly complete. Santé! ”
    â€œSanté!” the crowd cheers, sipping their champagne in honorof the happy couple, and as the music starts back up, people crowd onto the dance floor. I look around for Ava, who I had only briefly glimpsed at the wedding, since I had to be there early and was seated in the front row with Vincent, Kate, Charles, and Jeanne. She must have been one of the first to leave the chapel, because I didn’t see her afterward.
    But now, there she is across the room, wearing a full-length ruby-colored gown, her hair pulled back into an elegant updo. She is stunning. My heart and throat do this simultaneous squeeze-and-choke thing, and I can’t breathe for a full second. Which is one second too long, because some dashing guy from Geneviève’s house steps in, gives her this gallant and totally annoying bow, and sweeps her onto the dance floor.

FIFTEEN
    â€œ HOW ’ S YOUR DANCE CARD LOOK? ” SAYS THE voice I know better than any other—it’s been haunting my mind for months. And there is Kate, standing in front of me in her golden-auraed glory.
    â€œDouble-check your century, Kate,” I