Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Gabrielle!
Her name echoed within the grove, between the trees. Inside my mind. As if in response, the feu follet flickered out one by one, leaving us in darkness. Despite their frantic attempts to conjure a tracking spell, they knew her fate as well as I did. We all knew.
Gabrielle didn’t answer.
She never would.
At long last, Ismay fell to her knees, weeping, pounding the snow in anguish.
I wrapped my arms around my waist, doubling over against the nausea, but a hand caught my nape, forcing me upright. Cold, dark eyes met my own. “Compose yourself.” La Voisin’s grip hardened. When I tried to wriggle away, biting back a cry of pain, she watched me struggle with grim determination. “Your wish has been granted, Louise le Blanc. The Dames Rouges will join you in Cesarine, and I myself will rend your mother’s beating heart from her chest.”
The First Performance
Reid
Twilight had settled over Domaine-les-Roses when Claud took to his stage the next evening—a cracked fountain in town square, its basin filled with leaves and snow. Ice coated the rim, but he didn’t slip as he danced along it. With fingers as deft as his feet, he plucked a mandolin in a lively rhythm. The audience shouted their approval. Some divided into couples, laughing and spinning wildly, while others showered Seraphine’s feet with petals. Her voice rose above the crowd. Unearthly. Passionate. Too beautiful to be human.
When I pulled at my leather trousers, sullen, my mother tipped her cup toward me. Inside, a pink-colored liquid swirled. The villagers of Domaine-les-Roses fermented their own rose petal wine. “This might help, you know.”
I arched a brow, readjusting my pants again. “I doubt it.”
She’d donned a new dress for our performance tonight. Black and white. Garish. The edges of her mask had been trimmed with ludicrous poms. Still, no one had assaulted her with kohl. My eyes burned. Itched.
Zenna hadn’t told me how to remove it without blinding myself.
Worse still—Deveraux hadn’t provided a shirt with my costume. I’d been forced to strap my bandolier to my bare chest. Though I’d thrown on a coat for modesty’s sake—and to protect against the bitter wind—I doubted he’d allow it during The Red Death’s performance.
I told myself it was for the best. If a Chasseur hid in the audience, he wouldn’t recognize me. He wouldn’t suspect his once great captain of parading shirtless. Of flinging knives or lining his eyes with cosmetics. Of wearing a mask that extended into horns. I was ridiculous. Debased. Heat burned my throat, my ears, as a memory surfaced.
It won’t kill you to live a little, you know.
I’m a Chasseur, Lou. We don’t . . . frolic.
Glaring out at the festivities from the stoop of a boulangerie, I watched as Beau wove through the audience with a tin can and hooded cloak. In his free hand, he held a wooden scythe. Deveraux had thought it a fitting addition to the sinister costume. In the alley beside us, Toulouse and Thierry had set up a tent to peddle their services. To lure the weak with promises of fame and fortune-filled futures. Women paraded past them, batting their lashes. Blowing kisses. I couldn’t fathom it.
“They’re handsome,” Madame Labelle explained, smirking as Toulouse caught a girl’s hand and kissed it. “You can’t fault them for that.”
I could, and I did. If the villagers’ feathered ensembles were any indication, Domaine-les-Roses was a bizarre town.
“Being young and beautiful isn’t a crime, Reid.” She pointed to the young woman nearest us, who’d been watching me for the last quarter hour. Bold. Blond. Buxom. “You have many admirers yourself.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Ah, yes.” She winked at her own admirers. “For a moment, I forgot I spoke to the inexorable Saint Reid.”
“I’m not a saint. I’m married.”
“To whom? Louise Larue? I’m afraid the girl doesn’t exist.”
My fingers stilled around the knife in my hand. “And what’s my name, Maman?” She stiffened at the word, her eyes flying wide. Vicious satisfaction stole through me. “Diggory, Lyon, or Labelle? Should I choose one arbitrarily?” When she didn’t answer, opening and closing her mouth—spots of color blooming high on her cheeks—I turned away. Resumed rotating my knife. “A name isn’t a person. I don’t care what a stupid piece of paper says hers is. I made a vow, and I will honor it. Besides,” I muttered, “these girls look like birds.”
These girls aren’t Lou.
“You think Louise has never worn feathers in her hair?” Madame Labelle returned to herself with a thready laugh. “Those are swan feathers, dear boy, and we wear them to honor the Maiden. See that bonfire? The villagers will light it for Imbolc next month—as Louise has done every year since her birth, I assure you.”
My eyes sharpened with newfound interest on the girl, on the revelers near her. They clapped and stamped their feet to Claud’s mandolin, shouting praises. Fingers sticky from honey almond fritters. Rosemary biscuits. Seeded rolls. I frowned. The entire square reeked of vitality. Vitality—not fear. “They dare celebrate Imbolc?”
“You are far from Cesarine, my dear.” She patted my knee. Belatedly, I glanced at the door behind me, at the doors of all the shops lining the street. Not a single wanted poster. Whether Claud or the villagers had removed them, I didn’t know. “In the north, the old ways are still more common than you think. But don’t fret. Your brethren are too thick-witted to realize what swan feathers and bonfires mean.”
“They aren’t thick-witted.” A knee-jerk response. I ducked my head when she chuckled.
“I had to enlighten you, didn’t I? How can you condemn your culture if you don’t know your culture?”
“I don’t want to know my culture.”
Sighing heavily, she rolled her eyes. “Mother’s tits, you are petulant.”
I whirled to face her, incredulous. “What did you just say?”
She lifted her chin, hands clasped in her lap. The picture of poise and grace. “Mother’s tits. It’s a common enough expletive at the Chateau. I could tell you all about life there if you’d unclog the wax from your ears.”
“I—I don’t want to hear about my mother’s tits!” Cheeks flaming, I stood, determined to put as much distance between myself and that disturbing image as possible.
“Not mine, you blathering ingrate. The Mother’s. As in the Triple Goddess. When a woman grows a child in her womb, her breasts swell in preparation for feeding—”
“No.” I shook my head vehemently. “No, no, no, no, no. We aren’t discussing this.”
“Honestly, Reid, it’s the most natural thing in the world.” She patted the spot beside her. “You’ve been raised in a grossly masculine environment, however, so I’ll forgive your immaturity just this—oh, for goodness’ sake, sit.” She caught my wrist as I tried to flee, pulling me down beside her. “I know I’m in dangerous territory, but I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you.”
I forced myself to look at her. “Breasts?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. Louise.” At my bewildered expression, she said, “Are you . . . sure about her?”
The question—so unexpected, so absurd—jarred me to my senses. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Tilting her chin, she seemed to think hard on her next words. A wise decision. She was in dangerous territory. “You met only a few months ago. How well can you really know her?”
“Better than you could,” I growled.
“I doubt that very much. Morgane was my dearest childhood friend. I loved her, and she loved me. We were closer than sisters.”
“So?”
“So I know how alluring the le Blanc women can be.” As if sensing the rising tide in me, she plucked my knife away and sheathed it in her boot. “To be near them is to love them. They’re wild and free and excessive. Addictive. They consume us. They make us feel alive.” My hands trembled. I clenched them into fists. “But they’re also danger
ous. This will always be your life with her—running, hiding, fighting. You will never know peace. You will never know family. You will never grow old with her, son. One way or another, Morgane will not allow it.”
Her words knocked the breath from me. A second passed as I regained it. “No. We’ll kill Morgane.”
“Louise loves her mother, Reid.”
I shook my head vehemently. “No—”
“Every child loves their mother. Even those with complicated relationships.” She didn’t look at me, intent on sipping her wine. On watching Deveraux dance. His music faded to a dull roar in my ears. “But we aren’t discussing Lou and her mother, or her mother and me. We’re discussing the two of you. Louise has started her descent. I know the signs.” She nodded at my unspoken question. “Yes. The same thing happened to Morgane. You cannot stop it, and you cannot slow it down. It will consume you both if you try.”
“You’re wrong.” Vitriolic anger coated the words, but Madame Labelle didn’t recoil. Her voice only strengthened, sharpened.
“I hope so. I don’t want this darkness for her—and I certainly don’t want it for you. Think hard on your choice, son.”
“I’ve made my choice.”
“There are very few choices in life that can’t be unmade.”
Deveraux and Seraphine ended their song to roars of applause. A small part of me recognized it was our turn to take the stage, but I didn’t move. I wanted to shake her, to make her understand. There are very few choices in life that can’t be unmade, she’d said. But I’d already killed the Archbishop. That was one choice I couldn’t unmake—and even if I could, I wouldn’t.
I’d lied when I’d said I’d made my choice.
In truth, there’d been no choice at all. There never had been.
I loved her.
And if I had to run, hide, and fight for that love, I would. For the rest of my life, I would.
“I implore you to choose carefully,” Madame Labelle repeated, rising to her feet. Her face was grave. “Louise’s story does not end in happiness. It ends in death. Whether at her mother’s hands or her own, she will not remain the girl with whom you fell in love.”
Pressure built behind my eyes. “I’ll love her anyway.”
“A noble sentiment. But you owe no one unconditional love. Take it from someone who knows—when a person brings you more hurt than happiness, you’re allowed to let them go. You do not have to follow them into the dark.” She smoothed her skirts before extending a hand to me. Her fingers were warm, steady, as she led me toward the stage. “Let her go, Reid, before she takes you with her.”
I managed not to impale my mother.
Sweat curled my hair, slicked my skin, as I threw my last knife, untethered her from the board, and pushed through the horde of women who’d gathered to watch our performance. They giggled. Tittered. The blonde seemed to be following me. Everywhere I turned, she appeared, dragging two friends in tow. Batting her lashes. Angling her body to brush mine. Irritated, I spotted Beau through the crowd and beelined toward him.
“Here.” I hooked his arm and wheeled him in their direction. “Distract them.”
A roguish chuckle sounded beneath his hood. “With pleasure.”
I slipped away before the girls could follow.
Claud had parked the wagons in the alley behind the St. Martins’ tent. No one would bother me there. I’d have a moment alone to think, to change. To scrub my face. I half listened to Zenna as I wove through the crowd, cursing her and her stick of kohl. At least she hadn’t painted my lips blue, as her own. Beneath her extraordinary cloak, a silver dress rippled as she lifted her arms to begin her performance. Bangles glittered on her wrists.
“Herald! Hark! Hold dear ones close!” The cadence of her voice deepened, turned rich and melodic. A hush fell over the audience. “For this, a tale most grandiose of maiden fair and dragon dire—and their love, which ends in fire.”
Oi. Verse.
I kept walking. As suspected, Deveraux had confiscated my coat. The wind cut across my bare skin.
“Tarasque, a fearsome beast was he, but Martha, gentler far was she.” Enraptured, the crowd stilled as she continued her story. Even the children. I snorted and walked faster, shivering. “Tarasque a mighty fire sprayed, but Martha closed her eyes and prayed.”
At the last, my footsteps slowed. Halted. Against my better judgment, I turned.
Torchlight cast half of Zenna’s face in shadow as she tipped her chin to the sky, clasping her hands in prayer. “‘Suffer not for me, O Lord, but spare my kin the dragon’s hoard!’ And as her cry did pierce the sky, Tarasque looked down from kingdom high.” Zenna spread her arms wide, fanning the cloak behind her. In this flickering light, the fabric became wings. Even her eyes seemed to glow. “‘Who is this morsel, luscious treat, who calls to me with voice so sweet? I shall eat her, bones and all!’ And so Tarasque began to fall.”
Despite the cold, there was something in her voice, her expression, that held me there. My mother’s words echoed around Zenna’s. Toulouse and Thierry St. Martin—probably even Zenna and Seraphine—are not what they appear.
Like the others, I listened, rapt, as she wove her tale of woe: how Martha’s family—crazed with fear—offered her up to the dragon for slaughter, how Tarasque took her as his bride and the two fell in love. How, eventually, Martha longed to return to her homeland, where her father secretly lay in wait with a magic chain. How he used it to fell Tarasque, to hold him while he burned his own daughter at the stake.
At this, Zenna’s eyes found mine. Unadulterated hatred simmered within them. I felt it in my own chest.
Her voice grew louder, stronger, as she finished the story.
“Mighty was the dragon’s roar, as he broke the magic ore. And from their heads did bodies part, those men who stole his love—his heart.” Across the square, the blonde wept into Beau’s shoulder. Actually wept. And yet—I couldn’t scorn her. “To this day, he roves above, still grieving for his lady love. He withers crops and salts the earth and slaughters men, who rue their birth. Herald! Hark! Hold dear ones close, for this a tale of tears and woe, of maiden dead and dragon dire . . . and his wrath, which ends in fire.”
She heaved one last, tremendous exhale, and her breath in the cold night air billowed like smoke from her lips. Absolute silence descended in its wake. Undeterred, she swept to the ground in a magnificent bow. Her cloak pooled around her as liquid starlight. She remained that way, posed, until the audience finally found their voice. They erupted in cheers—louder even than they’d given Deveraux and Seraphine.
I gaped at her. What she’d done with her words—it shouldn’t have been possible. When she’d told me Claud collected only the exceptional, I hadn’t quite believed her. Now I knew. Now I felt. Though I didn’t examine the emotion too closely, it wasn’t a comfortable one. My face burned. My throat tightened. For those brief moments, Tarasque had felt real—more than real. And I’d felt sorry for a monster who’d kidnapped his bride and beheaded her kin.
Her kin who had burned her.
Never before had I thought of the women I’d burned. Not even Estelle. I’d thought only of Lou, who wasn’t like them. Lou, who wasn’t like other witches. How convenient, she’d told me before we’d parted. You see what you want to see.
Had I burned my own kin? I had no way of knowing, but even if I did . . . I couldn’t handle such knowledge. Couldn’t bear the consequences I’d reap, atone for the pain I’d inflicted. For the love I’d stolen. Once I would’ve argued such creatures weren’t capable of love. But Lou had proved otherwise. Madame Labelle and Coco had proved otherwise.
Perhaps Lou wasn’t like other witches.
Perhaps they were like her.
Unnerved by the realization, I barreled toward the wagons, heedless of those around me. But when I almost knocked a small boy to his knees, I lurched to a halt, catching his collar to steady him. “Je suis désolé,” I murmured, dusting off his tattered coat. His shoulders felt thin
under my hands. Malnourished.
He clutched a wooden doll to his chest and nodded, keeping his eyes downcast.
Reluctant to release him, I asked, “Where are your parents?”
He gestured back toward the fountain, where Zenna had started an encore. “I don’t like dragons,” he whispered.
“Smart child.” I glanced behind him toward Toulouse and Thierry’s tent. “Are you . . . in line?”
Again, he nodded. Perhaps not so smart, after all. I let him go.
When I reached the amber wagon, however, I couldn’t help but turn to watch him enter their tent. Though I couldn’t see Toulouse’s face, I could still see the boy’s. He requested the crystal ball. When Toulouse set it on the table between them—right next to a pot of incense—I tensed.
The boy clearly had little coin. He shouldn’t be spending it on magic.
A hand caught my arm before I could intervene. My free hand flew to my bandolier, but I stopped mid-motion, recognizing Thierry. He’d tied his hair away from his face. The style emphasized his harsh cheekbones. His black eyes. With the hint of a smile, he released me, jerking his chin toward the tent. I frowned as the boy handed Toulouse his doll—a wooden carving, I realized. It had horns. Hooves. Peering closer, I vaguely recognized the shape of it from Lou’s bottle of wine. I wracked my brain, failing to remember its name.
Toulouse accepted it carefully with one hand. He stroked the crystal ball with his other.
Within the mist of the glass, shapes began to form: the familiar horned man ruling over flora and fauna, a winged woman crowned with clouds. A third woman with fins soon joined them. The boy clapped in delight as she flitted through ocean waves. His laughter, it sounded . . . wholesome.
My frown deepened.
When he scampered from the tent a moment later, he still clutched his coin in hand—no. A stack of coins. Toulouse hadn’t taken from the boy. He’d given to him. I stared, incredulous, as an elderly woman stepped up to the table.
“Why don’t you speak, Thierry?” I asked.
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