The happiness in my chest punctured slightly.

As a child, my own birthdays had been revered as holy days. Witches from all over the kingdom had journeyed to Chateau le Blanc to celebrate, and together, we’d danced beneath the light of the moon until our feet had ached. Magic had coated the temple with its sharp scent, and my mother had showered me with extravagant gifts—a tiara of diamonds and pearls one year, a bouquet of eternal ghost orchids the next. She’d once parted the tides of L’Eau Mélancolique for me to walk the seafloor, and melusines had pressed their beautiful, eerie faces against the walls of water to watch us, tossing their luminous hair and flashing their silver tails.

Even then, I’d known my sisters celebrated less my life and more my death, but I’d later wondered—in my weaker moments—if the same had been true for my mother. “We are star-crossed, you and I,” she’d murmured on my fifth birthday, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Though I couldn’t remember the details clearly—only the shadows in my bedroom, the cold night air on my skin, the eucalyptus oil in my hair—I thought a tear had trickled down her cheek. In those weaker moments, I’d known Morgane hadn’t celebrated my birthdays at all.

She’d mourned them.

“I believe the proper response is thank you.” Coco sidled up to examine the bottle of wine, tossing her black curls over a shoulder. Ansel’s color deepened. With a smirk, she trailed a suggestive finger down the curve of the glass, pressing her own curves into his lanky frame. “What vintage is it?”

Beau rolled his eyes at her obvious performance, stooping to retrieve his onions. She watched him from the corner of her dark eyes. The two hadn’t spoken a civil word in days. It’d been entertaining at first, watching Coco chop at the prince’s bloated head quip by quip, but she’d recently brought Ansel into the carnage. I’d have to talk to her about it soon. My eyes flicked to Ansel, who still smiled from ear to ear as he gazed at the wine.

Tomorrow. I’d talk to her tomorrow.

Placing her fingers over Ansel’s, Coco lifted the bottle to study the crumbling label. The firelight illuminated the myriad scars on her brown skin. “Boisa?né,” she read slowly, struggling to discern the letters. She rubbed a bit of dirt away with the hem of her cloak. “Elderwood.” She glanced at me. “I’ve never heard of such a place. It looks ancient, though. Must’ve cost a fortune.”

“Much less than you’d think, actually.” Grinning again at Reid’s suspicious expression, I swiped the bottle from her with a wink. A towering summer oak adorned its label, and beside it, a monstrous man with antlers and hooves wore a crown of branches. Luminescent yellow paint colored his eyes, which had pupils like a cat’s.

“He looks scary,” Ansel commented, leaning over my shoulder to peer closer at the label.

“He’s the Woodwose.” Nostalgia hit me in an unexpected wave. “The wild man of the forest, the king of all flora and fauna. Morgane used to tell me stories about him when I was little.”

The effect of my mother’s name was instantaneous. Beau stopped scowling abruptly. Ansel stopped blushing, and Coco stopped smirking. Reid scanned the shadows around us and slid a hand to the Balisarda in his bandolier. Even the flames of the fire guttered, as if Morgane herself had blown a cold breath through the trees to extinguish them.

I fixed my smile in place.

We hadn’t heard a word from Morgane since Modraniht. Days had passed, but we hadn’t seen a single witch. To be fair, we hadn’t seen much of anything beyond this cage of roots. I couldn’t truly complain about the Hollow, however. Indeed—despite the lack of privacy and Madame Labelle’s autocratic rule—I’d been almost relieved when we hadn’t heard back from La Voisin. We’d been granted a reprieve. And we had everything we needed here, anyway. Madame Labelle’s magic kept the danger away—warming us, cloaking us from spying eyes—and Coco had found the mountain-fed stream nearby. Its current kept the water from freezing, and certainly Ansel would catch a fish one of these days.

In this moment, it felt as if we lived in a pocket of time and space separate from the rest of the world. Morgane and her Dames Blanches, Jean Luc and his Chasseurs, even King Auguste—they ceased to exist in this place. No one could touch us. It was . . . strangely peaceful.

Like the calm before a storm.

Madame Labelle echoed my unspoken fear. “You know we cannot hide forever,” she said, repeating the same tired argument. Coco and I shared an aggrieved look as she joined us, confiscating the wine. If I had to hear one more dire warning, I would upend the bottle and drown her in it. “Your mother will find you. We alone cannot keep you from her. However, if we were to gather allies, rally others to our cause, perhaps we could—”

“The blood witches’ silence couldn’t be louder.” I grabbed the bottle back from her, wrestling with the cork. “They won’t risk Morgane’s wrath by rallying to our cause. Whatever the hell our cause even is.”

“Don’t be obtuse. If Josephine refuses to help us, there are other powerful players we can—”

“I need more time,” I interrupted loudly, hardly listening, gesturing to my throat. Though Reid’s magic had closed the wound, saving my life, a thick crust remained. It still hurt like a bitch. But that wasn’t the reason I wanted to linger here. “You’re barely healed yourself, Helene. We’ll strategize tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Her eyes narrowed at the empty promise. I’d said the same for days now. This time, however, even I could hear the words landed different—true. Madame Labelle would no longer accept otherwise. As if to affirm my thoughts, she said, “Tomorrow we will talk, whether or not La Voisin answers our call. Agreed?”

I plunged my knife into the bottle’s cork, twisting sharply. Everyone flinched. Grinning anew, I dipped my chin in the briefest of nods. “Who’s thirsty?” I flicked the cork at Reid’s nose, and he swatted it away in exasperation. “Ansel?”

His eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t—”

“Perhaps we should procure a nipple.” Beau snatched the bottle from under Ansel’s nose and took a hearty swig. “It might be more palatable to him that way.”

I choked on a laugh. “Stop it, Beau—”

“You’re right. He’d have no idea what to do with a breast.”

“Have you ever had a drink before, Ansel?” Coco asked curiously.

Face darkening, Ansel jerked the wine from Beau and drank deeply. Instead of spluttering, he seemed to unhinge his jaw and inhale half the bottle. When he’d finished, he merely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shoved the bottle toward Coco. His cheeks were still pink. “It goes down smooth.”

I didn’t know which was funnier—Coco and Beau’s gobsmacked expressions or Ansel’s smug one. I clapped my hands together in delight. “Oh, well done, Ansel. When you told me you liked wine, I didn’t realize you could drink like a fish.”

He shrugged and looked away. “I lived in Saint-Cécile for years. I learned to like it.” His eyes flicked back to the bottle in Coco’s hand. “That one tastes a lot better than anything in the sanctuary, though. Where did you get it?”

“Yes,” Reid said, his voice not nearly as amused as the situation warranted. “Where did you get it? Clearly Coco and Ansel didn’t purchase it with our supplies.”

They both had the decency to look apologetic.

“Ah.” I batted my lashes as Beau offered the bottle to Madame Labelle, who shook her head curtly. She waited for my answer with pursed lips. “Ask me no questions, mon amour, and I shall tell you no lies.”

When he clenched his jaw, clearly battling his temper, I braced myself for the inquisition. Though Reid no longer wore his blue uniform, he just couldn’t seem to help himself. The law was the law. It didn’t matter on which side of it he stood. Bless him. “Tell me you didn’t steal it,” he said. “Tell me you found it in a hole somewhere.”

“All right. I didn’t steal it. I found it in a hole somewhere.”

He folded his arms across his chest, leveling me with a stern gaze. “Lou.”

“What?” I asked innocently. In a helpful gesture, Coco offered me the bottle, and I took a long pull of my own, admiring his biceps—his square jaw, his full mouth, his copper hair—with unabashed appreciation. I reached up to pat his cheek. “You didn’t ask for the truth.”

He trapped my hand against his face. “I am now.”

I stared at him, the impulse to lie rising like a tide in my throat. But—no. I frowned at myself, examining the base instinct with a pause. He mistook my silence for refusal, shifting closer to coax me into answering. “Did you steal it, Lou? The truth, please.”

“Well, that was dripping with condescension. Shall we try again?”