“Ansel . . .” I took his hand, deliberating. If he’d lived with his mother—and father—until he was three, it was highly unlikely the woman had been a Dame Blanche. True, she could’ve lived outside the Chateau—many Dames Blanches did—but even they rarely kept their sons, who were considered burdens, unable to inherit their mothers’ magic or enhance their family’s lineage.

Unbidden, my eyes cut to Reid. He whet his Balisarda on a stone with short, angry strokes.

How very wrong we’d been.

“It’s possible,” Ansel repeated, lifting his chin in an uncharacteristic display of stubbornness. “You said the blood witches keep their sons.”

“The blood witches don’t live in Cesarine. They live with their covens.”

“Coco doesn’t.”

“Coco is an exception.”

“Maybe I am too.”

“Where is this coming from, Ansel?”

“I want to learn how to fight, Lou. I want to learn magic. You can teach me both.”

“I’m hardly the person to—”

“We’re headed into danger, aren’t we?” He didn’t pause for me to confirm the obvious answer. “You and Coco have lived on the streets. You’re both survivors. You’re both strong. Reid has his training and his Balisarda. Madame Labelle has her magic, and even Beau was quick-witted enough to distract the other witches on Modraniht.”

The man in question scoffed. “Thanks.”

Ansel ignored him, shoulders slumping. “But I was worthless in that fight, just like I’ll be worthless in the blood camp.”

I frowned at him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“No, it isn’t.” I squeezed his hand and leaned forward. “I understand that you might think you need to earn a place amongst us, but you don’t. You already have one. If your mother was a witch, fine, but if she wasn’t . . .” He slipped his hand from mine, and I sighed, longing to cut out my own tongue. Perhaps then I wouldn’t need to eat my words so often. “You aren’t worthless, Ansel. Never think you’re worthless.”

“I’m sick and tired of everyone needing to protect me. I’d like to protect myself for a change, or even—” When my frown deepened, he sighed and dropped his face into his hands, grinding his palms into his eyes. “I just want to contribute to the group. I don’t want to be the bumbling idiot anymore. Is that so much to ask? I just . . . I don’t want to be a liability.”

“Who said you’re a bumbling idiot—”

“Lou.” He peered up at me, eyes lined with red. Pleading. “Help me. Please.”

I stared at him.

The men in my life really needed to stop using that word on me. Disasters always followed. The thought of changing a single thing about Ansel—of hardening him, of teaching him to fight, to kill—made my heart twist, but if he felt uncomfortable in his skin, if I could help ease that discomfort in any way . . .

I could train him in physical combat. Surely no harm—and no bitter disappointment—would come from teaching him to defend himself with a blade. As for lessons in magic, we could simply . . . postpone them. Indefinitely. He’d never need to feel inferior in that regard.

“Of course I’ll help you,” I finally said. “If—if that’s really what you want.”

A smile broke across his face, and the sun dimmed in comparison. “It is. Thank you, Lou.”

“This’ll be good,” Beau muttered.

I elbowed him, eager to change the subject. “How’s it looking?”

He lifted a gummy strand and wrinkled his nose. “Hard to tell. I imagine the longer we let it sit, the stronger the color will be.”

“How long did Evonne let it sit?”

“The hell if I know.”

A half hour later—after Beau had finished coating each strand—Ansel left us to join Coco. With a dramatic sigh, Beau dropped to the ground across from me, heedless of his velvet pants, and watched him go. “I was perfectly content to loathe the little mouth breather—”

“He’s not a mouth—”

“—but of course he’s an orphan with no self-worth,” Beau continued, unfettered. “Someone should burn that tower to the ground. Preferably with the huntsmen inside it.”

A peculiar warmth started at my neck. “I don’t know. At least the Chasseurs gave him some semblance of a family. A home. As someone who’s lived without both, I can confidently say a kid like Ansel wouldn’t have survived long without them.”

“Are my ears deceiving me, or are you actually commending the Chasseurs?”

“Of course I’m not—” I stopped short, startled at the truth of his accusation, and shook my head incredulously. “Hag’s teeth. I have to stop hanging out with Ansel. He’s a terrible influence.”

Beau snorted. “Hag’s teeth?”

“You know.” I shrugged, the uncomfortable warmth at my neck radiating across the rest of my scalp. Growing hotter by the second. “The hag’s eyeteeth?” When he looked on, bemused, I explained, “A woman gains her wisdom when she loses her teeth.”

He laughed out loud at that, but it didn’t seem remotely funny to me now, not when my scalp was on fire. I tugged at a strand of hair, wincing at the sharp pain that followed. This wasn’t normal, was it? Something had to be wrong. “Beau, get some water—” The word ended in a strangled cry as the strand of hair came away in my hand. “No.” I stared at it, horrified. “No, no, NO.”

Reid was at my side in an instant. “What is it? What’s—?”

Shrieking, I hurled the gooey clump of hair at Beau’s face. “You idiot! Look what you’ve—WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

He pawed the slime from his face, eyes wide and alarmed, and scrambled backward as I advanced. “I told you I didn’t know what I was doing!”

Coco appeared between us with a flask of water. Without a word, she dumped it over my head, dousing me from head to toe, washing away the gray goop. I spluttered, cursing violently, and nearly drowned all over again when Ansel stepped forward to repeat the offense. “Don’t,” I snarled when Madame Labelle joined the group, her own flask poised for action. “Or I’ll light you on fire.”

She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, and with a puff of hot air, the water on my body evaporated. Reid flinched. “Such melodramatics,” she said. “This is completely fixable—” But she stopped abruptly as I lifted a strand of too-brittle hair. We all stared at it together, realizing the worst in a heavy beat of silence.

My hair wasn’t blond. It wasn’t red or black or even the brassy color in between.

It was . . . white.

The strand broke off, crumbling in my fingers.

“We can fix this,” Madame Labelle insisted, lifting a hand. “All will be as before.”

“Don’t.” The tears in my eyes burned hotter than even my scalp. “No one else is going to lay a fucking finger on my hair.” If I dyed it with another round of chemicals, the remaining strands would likely catch on fire, and if I used magic, I risked even graver consequences. The pattern required to change my hair from—from this—would be unpleasant. Not because of the color. Because of what the color represented. Who it represented. On anyone else, white, moonbeam hair could’ve been beautiful, but on me . . .

Chin quivering, nose in the air, I turned to Reid and slid a knife from his bandolier. I wanted to rage at him, to fling my damaged hair in his anxious face. But this wasn’t his fault. Not truly. I was the one who’d trusted fucking Beau over magic, the one who’d thought to shield Reid from it. What a stupid notion. Reid was a witch. There would be no shielding him from magic—not now and certainly not ever again.

Though he watched me apprehensively, Reid didn’t follow as I stalked across the Hollow. Hot tears—irrational tears, embarrassed tears—gathered in my eyes. I wiped them away angrily. Part of me knew I was overreacting, knew it was just hair.

That part could piss right off.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

My hair fluttered to the ground like strands of spider silk, pale and foreign. Delicate as gossamer. A strand floated to my boot as if teasing me, and I swore I heard my mother’s laugh.

Jittery energy coursed through me as we waited for the sun to set.

We couldn’t enter Saint-Loire for our reconnaissance until the sun went down. There was little reason to sneak into the pub if no villagers would be there. No villagers meant no gossip. No gossip meant no information.

And no information meant we still knew nothing about the world outside the Hollow.

I pushed abruptly to my feet, stalking toward Ansel. He’d said he wanted to train, and I still had Reid’s knife from earlier. I flipped it from hand to hand. Anything to keep me from reaching up—again—to tug at my hair. The shorn ends just brushed the tops of my shoulders.

I’d thrown the rest of it into the fire.

Ansel sat with the others around the dying embers. Their conversation stalled as I neared them, and I had little trouble guessing what they’d been discussing. Who they’d been discussing. Fantastic. Reid, who’d been leaning against the nearest tree, approached cautiously. He’d been waiting for me, I realized. Waiting for permission to engage. I cracked a smile.

“How are you feeling?” He planted a kiss on top of my head, lingering on the white strands. For now, it seemed my tantrum trumped his own. “Better?”

“I think my scalp is still bleeding, but otherwise, yes.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I’m serious.”