Lou grinned and returned her attention to Deveraux. “Reid’s knives are practically extensions of his limbs, monsieur. He’ll hit any target you put in front of him.”

“How marvelous!” With a last, lingering look at said knives, Deveraux turned to Madame Labelle. “And you, chérie . . . ?”

“I’m—”

“His assistant.” Lou grinned wider. “Why don’t we strap her to a board and give you a demonstration?”

Deveraux’s brows climbed up his forehead. “I’m sure that’s unnecessary, but I do appreciate your enthusiasm. Quite infectious, I tell you.” He turned to Beau, sweeping into a ridiculous bow. His nose touched the tip of his boot. “If I might divulge, Your Highness, it is an exceptional and unparalleled delight to make your acquaintance. I’m positively expiring with suspense at the prospect of learning your myriad talents. Tell us one, if you please. How will you dazzle us on the stage?”

Beau didn’t return his smile. His lip curled. “I won’t be on the stage, and I certainly won’t be wearing anything feathered nor fuchsia.” At Deveraux’s expectant look, he sighed. “I’ll do your sums.”

Deveraux clapped his mittened hands together. “Just so! For royalty, we shall make an exception!”

“And you?” Zenna asked, sneering at Lou. “Any special talents for the stage?”

“If you must know, I play the mandolin. Quite well, in fact, because—” She hesitated, dipping her chin in an uncharacteristic display of insecurity. Though small—nearly indiscernible—the movement unsettled me. Pierced the haze of my thoughts. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell us,” I said softly.

“Well . . . my mother insisted I learn to play. The harp, the clavichord, the rebec—but the mandolin was her favorite.”

I frowned. I hadn’t known Lou could play a single instrument, let alone many. She’d once told me she couldn’t sing, and I’d assumed . . . but no. Those calluses on her fingers weren’t from swordplay. The mandolin. I wracked my brain, trying to picture the instrument, to remember the sound, but I couldn’t. The only instrument I’d heard in childhood had been an organ. I hadn’t cared to make time for others.

“Ha!” Zenna laughed in triumph. “We already have a musician. Claud is a virtuoso. The best in the kingdom.”

“Bully for him,” Lou muttered, stooping to save the fuchsia feathers from the snow. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I said it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m not joining the troupe.”

“I do beg your pardon?” Claud accepted the feathers with a scandalized expression. The wind picked up around us. It nearly blew his hat to the rooftops. “I believe I misheard you in this gale.”

“You didn’t.” Lou gestured to Ansel and Coco, raising her voice. Snow soaked her new cloak. She clutched it under her chin to keep herself concealed. “The three of us will be traveling in a different direction.”

Deveraux flapped his hands, and the feathers scattered once more. “Nonsense! Preposterous! As you have so succinctly surmised, the road is not safe for you. You must come with us!” He shook his head too vigorously, and the wind snatched his hat. It spiraled upward and disappeared into the snow. “No. No, I fear there is no question that our little rendezvous at the pub was fated by none other than Dame Fortune herself. Furthermore, I cannot abide you traveling the road alone. Nay, I refuse to have that on my conscience.”

“They will not be alone.”

An unfamiliar voice. An inexplicable chill.

Lou and I stepped together, turning as one to the dark figure beside us.

A woman.

I hadn’t heard her approach, hadn’t seen her draw near. Yet she stood no more than a hand’s breadth away, staring up at me with eerie, colorless eyes. Uncommonly thin—almost skeletal—with alabaster skin and black hair, she looked more wraith than human. My hand shot to my Balisarda. She tilted her head in response, the movement too quick, too bestial, to be natural.

Absalon wound between her emaciated ankles.

“Nicholina.” Coco bared her teeth in a snarl. “Where’s my aunt?”

The woman’s face split into a slow, cruel grin, revealing bloodstained teeth. I pulled Lou backward, away from her. “Not here,” she sang, her voice strange and high-pitched. Girlish. “Not here, not here, but always near. We come to answer your call.”

I felt her strange eyes on me as I heaved the last trunk into the wagon.

The others hastened to secure belongings, calm horses, check knots. Deveraux had pulled Lou aside, and they appeared to be arguing over the strange woman’s arrival. I couldn’t tell. Snow blew around us in a tempest now, eliminating visibility. Only two of the torches lining the street remained. The rest had succumbed to the storm.

Scowling, I finally turned to face her—Nicholina—but she was gone.

“Hello, huntsman.”

I jumped at her voice directly behind me, startled by her close proximity. Heat flushed my throat, my face. “Who are you?” I asked. “How do you keep doing that?”

She lifted a skeletal finger to my cheek, tilting her head as if fascinated. The torchlight flickered over her scars. They disfigured her skin, twisted it into a macabre lattice of silver and blood. I refused to flinch away.

“I am Nicholina le Claire, La Voisin’s personal attendant.” Trailing a sharpened nail along my jaw, her lip curled. The girlish cadence of her voice vanished, deepening unexpectedly to a guttural snarl. “And I will not explain the secrecies of blood craft to a huntsman.” Darkness stirred in those colorless eyes as she gazed past me to Lou. Her grip on my chin hardened, and her nails bit deep. Nearly drawing blood. “Or his little mouse.”

Coco stepped between us. “Careful, Nicholina. Lou is under my aunt’s protection. Reid is under mine.”

“Mmm . . . Reid.” Nicholina licked her lips salaciously. “Your name on my tongue tastes like salt and copper and warm, wet things—”

“Stop it.” I stepped away from her, alarmed, disgusted, and glanced at Lou. She watched us from beyond the wagons, eyes narrowed. Deveraux waved his hands at her emphatically. I strode toward them—determined to remove myself from this situation—but Nicholina shadowed my footsteps. Still too close. Much, much too close. The childlike lilt returned to her voice.

“My mice whisper such naughty things about you, Reid. Such wicked, naughty things. Cosette, regret, and forget, they cry. Cosette, regret, and forget. I can’t attest, as I’ve never tasted huntsman—”

“And you won’t start with this one.” Coco hurried after us as Lou extricated herself from Deveraux. “He’s married.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.” I lurched to a stop, whirling to glare at her. “So please maintain the appropriate distance, mademoiselle.”

She grinned wickedly, arching a thin brow. “Perhaps my mice were misinformed. They do love to whisper. Whisper, whisper, whisper. Always whispering.” She leaned closer, and her lips tickled the shell of my ear. Again, I refused to react. Refused to give this insane woman the satisfaction. “They say you hate your wife. They say you hate yourself. They say you taste delicious.” Before I realized her intention, she’d dragged her tongue down my cheek in a long, wet movement.

Lou reached us at the same moment. Her eyes flashed with turquoise fire.

“What the hell are you doing?” With both hands, she moved to shove Nicholina away, but Nicholina had already floated backward. The way she moved . . . it was like she wasn’t entirely corporeal. But her nails on my chin had been real enough, as was her saliva on my cheek. I jerked up my shirt collar, wiping at the moisture, heat razing my ears. Lou’s fists clenched. She squared up to the taller woman. Vibrated with anger. “Keep your hands to yourself, Nicholina.”

“Keep them, keep them.” Her eyes roved the exposed skin of my throat, dropped lower to my chest. Hungry. I tensed instinctively. Resisted the urge to clasp shut my coat. “He can keep them for me. Keep them and sweep them and slowly creep them—”

A low, menacing sound tore from Lou, and she stepped closer. Their toes nearly touched. “If you touch him again, I’ll keep them for you. Each”—she took another step, closing the distance between them—“bloody”—she leaned closer still, body taut with anticipation—“stump.”

Nicholina grinned down at her, unaffected, despite the way the wind rose and the temperature plummeted. Coco glanced around. Alarmed. “Silly mouse,” Nicholina purred. “He hunts even now. Even now, he hunts. He knows his own mind, didn’t tell me to stop.”

“You lie.” Even I heard the defensiveness in my voice. Lou stood rooted in front of me. She didn’t turn around when I touched her shoulder. “Lou, she’s a—”

“But can he stop?” Nicholina circled us now, like a predator scenting blood. “Hunt and stop? Or stop and hunt? Soon we’ll taste the noises on his tongue, oh yes, each moan and sigh and grunt—”

“Nicholina,” Coco said sharply, seizing Lou’s arm when she lunged. “Enough.”