Now I wanted to kiss her for a different reason.

Night had fully fallen outside. Only the fire in the grate illuminated the grubby room. Though we sat as far away from it as possible, masked in the deepest shadows, its dim light hadn’t hidden the wanted posters tacked to the door. Two of them. One with a sketch of my face, one with a sketch of Lou’s. Duplicates of the ones littering the village streets.

Louise le Blanc, under suspicion of witchcraft, her sign had said. Wanted dead or alive. Reward.

Lou had laughed, but we’d all heard it for what it was. Forced. And under my picture—

Reid Diggory, under suspicion of murder and conspiracy. Wanted alive. Reward.

Wanted alive. It still didn’t make sense in light of my crimes.

“See? All hope isn’t lost.” Lou had elbowed me halfheartedly upon seeing my indictment. In a moment of weakness, I’d suggested fleeing for the nearest seaport, leaving this all behind. She hadn’t laughed then. “No. My magic lives here.”

“You lived without magic for years.”

“That wasn’t living. That was surviving. Besides, without . . . all of this”—she gestured around us—“who am I?”

The urge to seize her had been overwhelming. Instead, I’d leaned low—until we were eye to eye and nose to nose—and said fiercely, “You are everything.”

“Even if witches weren’t watching the ports, even if we somehow managed to escape, who knows what Morgane would do to those left behind. We’d live, yes, but we couldn’t leave everyone else to such a fate. Could we?”

Phrased like that, the answer had sunk like dead weight in my stomach. Of course we couldn’t leave them. But she’d still searched my eyes hopefully, as if awaiting a different answer. It’d made me pause, a hard knot twisting in my stomach. If I’d maintained we should leave, would she have agreed? Would she have subjected an entire kingdom to Morgane’s wrath, just so we might live?

A small voice in my head had answered. An unwelcome one.

She’s already done that.

I’d pushed it away viciously.

Now—with her body angling toward mine, her hood slipping—my hands trembled, and I resisted the urge to continue our argument. Too soon, she would leave for the blood camp. Though she wouldn’t be alone, she would be without me. It was unacceptable. It couldn’t happen. Not with both Morgane and Auguste after her head.

She can look after herself, the voice said.

Yes. But I can look after her too.

Sighing, she slumped back in her chair, and regret cleaved my panic. She thought I’d rejected her. I hadn’t missed the way her eyes had tightened by the pool, then again in camp. But I wasn’t rejecting her. I was protecting her.

I made stupid decisions when she touched me.

“How about you, Antoine?” Lou thrust the tumbler toward Ansel instead. “You wouldn’t let a lady drink alone, would you?”

“Of course I wouldn’t.” He looked solemnly to the left and right. “But I don’t see a lady here. Do you?”

Lou mustered a cackle and dumped the amber liquid over his head.

“Stop it,” I growled, tugging her hood back in place. For just a moment, her hair had been visible to the pub. Though she’d sheared it, the color remained startlingly white. Distinct. It wasn’t a common color, but it was a notorious one. An iconic one. None would recognize it on Lou, but they might mistake her for someone altogether worse. Even Lou had to see the similarities between her and her mother’s features now.

Snatching my hand away before I could caress her cheek, I mopped up the whiskey with my cloak. “This is exactly why Madame Labelle didn’t want you out in public. You draw too much attention.”

“You’ve known your mother for approximately three and a half seconds, and already she’s the authority. I can’t tell you how exciting this is for me.”

I rolled my eyes. Before I could correct her, a group of men seated themselves at the table next to us. Dirty. Disheveled. Desperate for a drink. “Fifi, love,” the loudest and dirtiest of them called, “bring us a pint and keep ’em comin’. That’s my girl.”

The barmaid—equally filthy, missing her two front teeth—bustled off to comply.

Across the bar, Beau mouthed something to Lou, tapping his own teeth, and she snickered. Jealousy radiated through me. I moved closer instinctively, stopped, and scooted back once more. Forced myself to sweep the perimeter of the room instead.

“Migh’ wan’ a take it easy, Roy,” one of his companions said. “Early morn tomorrow, and all.”

Behind the disheveled group, three men in dark clothing played cards. Swords at their hips. Mead in their cups. Beyond them, a young couple chatted animatedly with Madame Labelle, Coco, and Beau. Fifi and a powerfully built barkeep tended the counter. Actors and actresses danced by the door. More villagers spilled in from outside, eyes bright with excitement and noses red with cold.

People everywhere, blissfully unaware of who hid in their midst.

“Bah.” Roy spat on the floor. A bit of the spittle dripped down his chin. Lou—seated closest to him—scooted her chair away, nose wrinkling. “Horse broke ’er leg yesterday eve. We won’ be goin’ ta Cesarine after all.”

At this, the three of us grew still. Unnaturally still. When I nudged Lou, she nodded and took a sip of her drink. Ansel followed suit, grimacing when the liquid hit his tongue. He tipped it toward me. I declined, quickly tallying the distance from Saint-Loire to Cesarine. If these men planned on leaving in the morning, the Archbishop’s funeral was in a fortnight.

“Lucky, you are,” another said as Fifi returned with their mead. They drank greedily. “Wife won’ let me outta it. Says we have ta pay our respects. Bleedin’ ’alfwit, she is. Old Florin never did me nothin’ but peeve the wee ones durin’ harvest.”

The sound of his name hit me like a brick. These were farmers, then. Several weeks ago, we’d been dispatched to deal with another lutin infestation outside Cesarine. But we’d been helping the farmers, not hindering them.

As if reading my mind, one said, “His blue pigs did kill ’em, though, Gilles. That’s somethin’.”

Blue pigs. Fury coiled in my throat at the slur. These men didn’t realize all the Chasseurs did to ensure their safety. The sacrifices they made. The integrity they held. I eyed the men’s rumpled clothing in distaste. Perhaps they lived too far north to understand, or perhaps their farms sat too far removed from polite society. None but simpletons and criminals referred to my brotherhood—I winced internally, correcting myself—the Chasseurs’ brotherhood as anything but virtuous, noble, and true.

“Not all o’ them,” Gilles replied gruffly. “We had a righ’ proper riot after they lef’. The little devils dug up their friends’ corpses and shredded my wheat in one nigh’. We leave out a weekly offerin’ now. The blues would burn us if they knew, but wha’ can we do? Cheaper than losin’ another field to the creatures. We’re caught between the rock and the hard place. Can hardly put food in our bellies as it is.”

He turned to order another round from Fifi.

“Aye,” his friend said, shaking his head. “Damned if we do, and damned if we don’.” He returned his attention to Roy. “Migh’ be for the best, though. My sister lives in Cesarine with ’er whelps, an’ she said Auguste ’as set a curfew. People ain’t allowed out after sundown, an’ women ain’t allowed out at all without gentlemanly chaperones. He’s got his soldiers patrollin’ the streets day an’ nigh’ lookin’ for suspicious womenfolk after wha’ happened to the Archbishop.”

Chaperones? Patrols?

Lou and I exchanged looks, and she cursed softly. It’d be harder to navigate the city than we expected.

Gilles shuddered. “Can’t say I rightly mind it. Wee folk are one thing. Witches are another. Evil, they is. Unnatural.”

The other men mumbled their agreement while Roy ordered another round. When one of them diverted the conversation to his hernia, however, Lou shot me a quick glance. I didn’t like the gleam in her eye. Didn’t like the determined set in her jaw. “Don’t,” I warned, voice low, but she took a hearty swig and spoke over me.

“Oi, you ’ear what that lummox Toussaint was claimin’?”

Every eye at the neighboring table swiveled toward her. Disbelief kept me rooted to my chair, gaping along with the rest of them. Ansel let out a nervous chuckle. More squeak than anything. Lou kicked him under the table.

After another tense second, Roy belched and patted his stomach. “Who’re you, then? Why’re you hidin’ yer face?”

“Bad ’air day, boy-o. Sheared the whole o’ it off in a fit o’ rage, and now I can’ stand the sight of meself.”

Ansel choked on his whiskey. Instinctively, I pounded him on the back. Neither of us tore our eyes from Lou. I couldn’t see her grin, but I could sense it. She was enjoying herself.

I wanted to strangle her.