I didn’t like that smile. Straightening hastily, I nudged Absalon away with my foot. He didn’t move. “Shoo,” I hissed, but he merely gazed balefully back at me. Shit.

The auburn-haired woman from before interrupted us, peeking inside the tent. She held the hand of a child, a miniature version of herself. “The midnight search party has returned, my lady.” Sniffing, she wiped away a fresh tear. “No sign of him. The next party has assembled.”

“Do not fear, Ismay. We will find him.” La Voisin clasped her hands, and her voice softened. “You must rest. Take Gabrielle back to your tent. We will wake you with developments.”

“No, I—I must rejoin the party. Please do not ask me to sit idly while—while my son—” She broke off, overcome, before gritting her teeth. “I will not rest until he is found.”

La Voisin sighed. “Very well.” When Ismay nodded in thanks, guiding her daughter out of the tent, La Voisin inclined her head to me. “If you agree to my terms, you will join the next party in their search. They leave immediately. Nicholina will accompany you, as will Ismay and Gabrielle. You may also take your familiar and companion.” She paused. “Cosette, you will attend me.”

“Tante—” Coco started.

“He’s not my familiar—” I snapped.

But La Voisin spoke over us, her eyes flashing. “You try my patience, child. If I am to consider this alliance, you will find Etienne before the first light of day. Do we have a deal?”

One Step Forward

Reid

The weight of the knife was heavy in my palm. Solid. The blade balanced and sharp. I’d purchased it from one of the finest smiths in Cesarine—a smith who had later consorted to kill my wife with a couple of criminals. Blue pig, he’d spat after I’d given him to the authorities. In all our years of business, I hadn’t known he despised me. Just like the farmers in Saint-Loire. All because of my uniform.

No. That wasn’t true.

All because of me. My beliefs.

Golden stars took up most of the spinning board. Leather cuffs hung from four strategic points on the circular wood—two for an assistant’s hands, and two for their feet. The top of the board had been stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood.

With a halfhearted flick of my wrist, I threw my knife. It lodged dead center.

Deveraux erupted into applause. “Well, that was quite—quite extraordinary, Monsieur Diggory! Really, Louise wasn’t fibbing when she spoke of your bladed prowess!” He fanned himself for a moment. “Ah, the crowd will positively exalt your performance. The Dagger of Danger, we shall call you. No, no—Knife Strife.”

I stared at him, alarmed. “I don’t think—”

“Argh, you’re right, you’re right, of course. We have not yet found the perfect appellation. Never fear! Together, we shall—” His hands shot skyward abruptly, fingers splayed as if framing a portrait. “Three-Fingered Red? It takes three fingers to perform, yes?”

“Any more, and it would just be uncomfortable.” Lounging behind us on a spangled blanket, Beau laughed. The remains of his lunch littered the ground beside him. “Might I suggest Le Petit Jésus as an alternative?”

“Stop.” I took a deep breath through my nose. Heat worked up my throat, and even to me, the word sounded tired. I’d thought to use the break in travel to practice. An egregious lapse in judgment. “I don’t need a stage name.”

“My dear, dear boy!” Deveraux clutched his chest as if I’d insulted his mother. “Whatever else shall we call you? We cannot simply announce you as Reid Diggory.” He flapped a hand, swatting away my protests. “The couronnes, dear boy, just think of the couronnes! You need a name, an identity, to whisk the audience into their fantas—” His hand stilled mid-swipe, and his eyes lit with excitement. “The Red Death,” he said with relish. My heartbeat faltered. “That’s it. The clear winner. The obvious selection. Come one, come all, to witness the horrible, the hellacious, the handsome Red Death!”

Beau doubled over with laughter. I nearly threw another knife at him.

“I prefer Raoul.”

“Nonsense. I have clearly articulated my feelings on the name Raoul.” Deveraux dropped his hands. The feather on his hat bobbed in agitation. “Never fear, I have every confidence the honorific shall grow on you. But perhaps a respite is in order in the meantime? We might instead outfit you both for your grand debut!”

Beau rose hastily to his elbows. “I told you I won’t be onstage.”

“Everyone in the company must model the appropriate attire, Your Highness. Even those collecting tickets and tips from the audience. You understand, I’m sure.”

Beau fell backward with a groan.

“That’s the spirit!” From his sleeve, Deveraux pulled a measuring tape. “Now, I’ll just need a few measurements—a negligible amount, really—and all will be set. May I?” He gestured to my arm. When I nodded, he stepped into my space, engulfing me in the scent of wine.

That explained a lot.

“For the remainder of our journey,” he prattled, unfurling his tape, “might I suggest you bunk with the twins in the amber wagon? Your mother may join you. Your brother, however, may better suit the scarlet wagon with Zenna and Seraphine. Though I sleep little, I will accompany him there.” He chortled at an unspoken joke. “I’ve been told Zenna and Seraphine are the fiercest of snorers.”

“I would be better suited to Zenna and Seraphine’s wagon.” I could hear the smirk in Beau’s voice. “How perceptive you are, Claud.”

He barked a laugh. “Oh no, dear boy, I fear if romance is what you seek, you shall be markedly disappointed. Zenna’s and Seraphine’s very souls are intertwined. Cosmic, I tell you.”

Beau’s expression flattened, and he looked away, muttering about piss poor luck.

“Why the sleeping arrangements?” I asked suspiciously. After bidding Lou goodbye, I’d spent the remainder of the night riding up front with Claud. He’d tried to pass the time with conversation. When I hadn’t kept up my end, he’d started to sing, and I’d regretted my grave error. For hours.

“You’re quite contrary, aren’t you, Monsieur Diggory? Quite prickly.” He peered up at me with a curious expression before dropping to measure my inseam. “’Tis nothing nefarious, I assure you. I simply think it wise for you to consider pursuing a friendship with our dear Toulouse and Thierry.”

“Again, why?”

“You might have more in common with them than you think.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Beau. He frowned at Deveraux. “That’s not cryptic at all.”

Deveraux sighed and stood once more, patting the mud from his corduroy trousers. Violet corduroy trousers. “If I might be frank, messieurs.” He turned to me. “You have recently suffered a rather traumatic event and are in desperate need of platonic companionship. Your forefather is gone. Your brotherhood has abandoned you. Your self-loathing has cleaved a physical and emotional cleft between you and your wife. More important, it has cleaved a cleft within yourself.”

Sharp, hot anger spiked through me at the unexpected reprimand. “You don’t even know me.”

“Perhaps not. But I do know you don’t know yourself. I know you cannot know another until you do.” He snapped his fingers in front of my nose. “I know you need to wake up, young man, lest you leave this world without finding that which you truly seek.”

I glared at him, the beginning of shame flushing my neck. My ears. “And what’s that?”

“Connection,” he said simply, spinning his tape into a tidy roll. “We all seek it. Accept yourself, accept others, and you just might find it. Now”—he turned on his booted heel, smiling cheerily over his shoulder—“I suggest you partake in your midday meal. We soon continue to Domaine-les-Roses, where you shall woo the crowd with your knife-wielding prowess. Ta-ta!”

He strode off whistling a merry tune.

Beau snorted in the ensuing silence. “I like him.”

“He’s mad.”

“All the best ones are.”

His words sparked others—sharper ones now. Words that bit and snapped within my mind, seeking blood. Claud is a collector of sorts, Zenna had said. He adds only the best and brightest talent to his troupe. The rare and unusual. The exceptional.

My suspicion deepened. His curious look, his meaningful smile . . . was it possible he knew my secret? Did he know what I’d done on Modraniht? It wasn’t likely. And yet—Morgane knew. I wasn’t fool enough to believe she’d keep that knowledge to herself. When it best suited her purposes, she’d reveal it, and I would burn. And perhaps I deserved to burn. I’d taken life. I’d played God—

No. I retreated from my spiraling thoughts, breathing deeply. Marshaling my mind into order. Into silence. It lasted only seconds before another unwelcome question crept in.

If Deveraux did know, did that mean—were the twins also witches?

You might have more in common with them than you think.

Scoffing, I unsheathed another knife. In all my years around magic, in all Lou’s years around it, we’d never heard of another male witch. To stumble upon two others this quickly after Modraniht was the least likely possibility of all. No. Less than unlikely. Absurd.