Claud is a collector of sorts.

Closing my eyes, I focused on emptying my mind of thought. Such speculation did little good. I had one purpose now—to protect Lou, to protect my unknown brothers and sisters. I couldn’t know them if they were dead. I breathed in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Retreated to my fortress. Relished the darkness of my lids.

It didn’t matter if the twins were witches.

It didn’t matter if Deveraux knew I was one.

Because I wasn’t a witch if I didn’t practice.

I wasn’t a witch.

Heedless of my conviction, gold flickered to life in the darkness, and there—soft at first, so soft I nearly missed them—voices began to hum.

Seek us, seek us, seek us.

My eyes snapped open.

When Beau cleared his throat behind me, I jumped, nearly dropping my knife. “You aren’t seriously planning on strapping your mother to that board, are you?” he asked. “You could decapitate her.”

In response, I hurled the knife—end over end—toward the center of the board. It sank deep beside the first one.

“Now you’re just posturing.” He rose from his blanket, stepped to my side for a better view. To my surprise, he tugged another knife from my bandolier, studying it in his hand. Then he threw it.

It thudded against the board like a dead fish before falling to the ground.

A beat of silence passed.

“It would seem”—Beau straightened his coat with as much dignity as he could muster—“I’m shit at this.”

I snorted despite myself. The knot in my chest loosened. “Was there ever any doubt?”

A self-deprecating grin broke over his face, and he pushed my shoulder halfheartedly. Though tall, he stood a couple of inches shorter than me.

“When’s your birthday?” I blurted.

He arched a black brow. So different from my own. “The ninth of August. I’m twenty-one years old. Why?”

“No reason.”

“I’m older than you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t, and you’re not.”

“Come now, little brother, I told you my birthdate. It’s only fair you reciprocate.” When I didn’t answer, his grin spread. “Your silence is damning. You really are younger, aren’t you?”

Pushing his hand from my shoulder, I stalked toward the amber wagon. My neck burned.

Cots lined the walls inside, built above and below storage shelves like pieces of a puzzle. Pillows overflowed. Though threadbare, silk and velvet and satin covered each of them. Trunks had been shoved in the corners, along with a battered rack of costumes and a half-dressed mannequin. My chest twisted.

It reminded me of Soleil et Lune’s attic.

Except for the incense. Frankincense and myrrh burned within a small porcelain pot. The smoke funneled out through a hole in the roof.

I hurled the entire pot outside into the snow.

“Easy there.” Beau dodged the projectile, following me into the wagon. “Have the resins personally offended you?”

Again, I didn’t answer. He didn’t need to know it reminded me of the cathedral. Of . . . him.

I collapsed onto the nearest cot, tossing my bag to my feet. Rummaging for a dry shirt. When my hand caught instead on my journal, I pulled it out. Trailed my fingers across the worn cover. Flipped through the crinkled pages. Though perhaps I’d been foolish to pack such a sentimental token, I hadn’t been able to leave it behind. Absently, I paused at my last entry—the evening I’d visited the king after burning Estelle.

My father.

I traced the words on the page, not truly seeing them. I’d done my best not to think of him, but now, his face crept back into my thoughts. Golden hair. Strong jaw. Piercing eyes. And a smile—a smile that disarmed all who looked upon it. He wielded it like a blade. No—a deadlier weapon still. A blade could not disarm his enemies, but his smile could.

As a Chasseur, I’d seen it from afar my entire life. Only when he’d invited me to dine with him had I witnessed it personally. He’d smiled at me the entire night, and despite Lou writhing alone in my bed—burning alive for her sister’s sin—I’d felt . . . seen. Appreciated. Special.

Beau had inherited that smile. I had not.

Before I could lose my nerve, I asked, “What do our sisters look like? Violette and Victoire?”

Beau paused in examining the contents of the nearest trunk. I couldn’t see his face. If my abrupt question surprised him, he didn’t say. “They look like me, I suppose. Like our mother. She hails from an island across the sea. It’s a beautiful kingdom. Tropical. Much warmer than this nonsense.” He waved a hand toward the snow outside before plucking a crystal orb from the nearest trunk. “They’re twins, you know. Prettier than my mother and me. Long black hair and blacker eyes, not a blemish on either of their faces. Like paintings—and my father treats them as such. That’s why you’ve never seen them. They’re rarely allowed outside the castle walls.”

“How old are they?”

“Thirteen.”

“What do they”—I leaned forward eagerly—“what do they like? Do they read? Ride horses? Play with swords?”

He turned and smiled that smile, then. But it looked different on him. Genuine. “If by play, you mean bash their big brother over the head, then . . . yes. They like to play with swords.” He eyed the journal in my hand. “And Violette likes to write and read. Victoire not so much. She prefers to chase cats and terrorize the staff.”

A warmth I’d never known spread through me at the picture he painted. A warmth I hardly recognized. It wasn’t anger or humiliation or—or shame. It was something else. Something . . . happy.

It hurt.

“And our father?” I asked quietly. “What’s he like?”

Beau’s smile faded then, and he dropped the lute he’d been plucking back into the trunk. His eyes narrowed as he faced me fully. “You know what he’s like. Don’t paint us like a fairy tale, Reid. We aren’t one.”

Closing my journal with more force than necessary, I pushed to my feet. “I know that. I just—I’ve—” I exhaled hard and threw caution to the winds. “I’ve never had a family.”

“And you still don’t.” He shook his head in exasperation, eyeing me as if I were a stupid child in need of admonishment. “I should’ve known you’d do this. I should’ve known you’d want to bond.” Stepping closer, he stuck a finger in my chest. “Listen carefully, little brother. This isn’t a family. It’s a noose. And if this brilliant plan of yours goes awry, we’ll all swing from it—you, me, Violette, Victoire, and every other poor bastard our father has fucked into existence.” He paused, and his expression softened infinitesimally before hardening once more. He kicked open the wagon door. “Make peace with it now, or we’ll break your heart.”

He left without another word.

The sway of wheels woke me. Groggy, disoriented, I jolted from my cot. My head pounded—doubly so when I cracked it against the shelf overhead—and my neck ached. I rubbed it with a muttered curse.

“Sleep well?” Madame Labelle regarded me over the brim of her teacup. Jade with gold filigree. The scent of spiced pears pervaded the wagon. Mulled perry, then. Not tea. It rippled with each roll of the wheels. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the window, as did Deveraux’s cheery whistle.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Around four o’clock. You’ve been asleep for hours. I didn’t want to wake you.” She offered me a second cup, along with a small smile. “Would you like some? I’m quite partial to perry after a long nap. Perhaps you are too?”

A hopeful question. A transparent one.

When I didn’t answer, she prattled on, spinning her own cup in her hands. Around and around. A restless gesture. “My mother brewed it for me when I was a girl. A grove of pear trees grew in the valley near the Chateau, and it was our secret place. We’d harvest the fruit at the end of summertime and hide them all over the Chateau, waiting for them to ripen.” Her grin broadened as she looked up at me. “And we’d weave the blossoms into crowns, necklaces, rings. Once I even made Morgane a cape of them. It was glorious. Her mother—Louise’s grandmother—organized a dance that May Day just so she could wear it.”

“I’m allergic to pears.”

I wasn’t, but I’d heard enough. Her smile fell.

“Of course. Forgive me. Perhaps some tea instead?”

“I don’t like tea.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Coffee?”

“No.”

“Wine? Mead? Beer?”

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

She set her cup down with an angry clink. “As you’re sitting healthy and whole before me, I presume you drink something. Pray tell me what it is, so I might indulge you.”

“Water.”

She downright scowled then, abandoning her saccharine act. With a wave of her hand over the pot of perry, the spiced scent in the air vanished. The sharp bite of magic replaced it. Mouth pursed, she poured crystal-clear water into my cup. Pushed it roughly toward me.