Gaby narrowed her eyes and stepped around her, pulling us along with her. “How much do you know about Dames Blanches’ magic, Ansel Diggory?”

Ismay closed her eyes, lips moving as if praying for patience. Ansel gave her an apologetic smile as we passed. “Not much, I’m afraid. Not yet.”

“I figured.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Gaby harrumphed, but a smug smile played on her lips. “Dames Blanches’ and Dames Rouges’ magic might be different, but it’s also the same because each requires balance. When we spill our blood, we weaken our bodies, which limits us. We surrender little pieces of ourselves with each enchantment, and eventually, we die from it.” She said the last with relish, swinging our hands once more. “Well, if we don’t die from exposure first. Or starvation. Or huntsmen.”

Ansel frowned, casting me a confused look over her head. I watched as the implication sank in.

Coco.

When I nodded sadly, his face crumpled.

Ismay hurried after us. “Gabrielle, please, we cannot discuss such things with—”

“That is why blood is the most powerful way,” Gaby continued, determinedly ignoring her. “Because we must sacrifice with each cut, and that makes the enchantments stronger.”

“Gabrielle—”

“Blood is easily given.” The words left my mouth before I could catch them. When Gaby peered up at me, surprised, I hesitated. Though she was clearly intelligent, she was also still a child—perhaps only seven or eight years old. And yet . . . she’d also clearly known pain. I repeated the words Coco had told me years ago. “Tears—the pain that causes them—aren’t.”

They both gazed at me in silence.

“You—” Behind us, Ismay’s voice faltered. “You know our magic?”

“Not really.” I stopped walking with a sigh, and Ansel and Gabrielle followed suit. They watched with transparent curiosity as I turned to face Ismay. “But I’ve known Coco for most of my life. When I met her, she was—well, she was trying not to cry.” The memory of her six-year-old face flared in my mind’s eye: the quivering chin, the determined expression, the crumpled sea lily. She’d clutched it with both hands as she’d recounted the argument with her aunt. “But we were six, and the tears fell anyway. When they touched the ground, they sort of multiplied until we were standing in a pond, ankle-deep in mud.”

Ansel stared at me with wide eyes.

At long last, Ismay’s hostility seemed to fracture. She sighed and extended a hand to Gabrielle, who took it without complaint. “Long ago, we did experiment with tear magic, but it proved too volatile. The tears often overpowered the additives and transformed them into something else entirely. A simple sleeping solution could send the drinker into a peaceful slumber or . . . a more permanent one. We concluded it depended on the emotions of the witch when she shed the tears in question.”

As fascinating as her conjecture would’ve been, an inexplicable tugging sensation had started in my chest, distracting me. I glanced around. Nothing seemed amiss. Though we still hadn’t found Etienne, there’d been no signs of foul play—no signs of life anywhere, in fact. Except—

A crow alighted on a branch in front of us. It tilted its head, curious, and stared directly at me.

Unease crept down my spine.

“What is it?” Ansel asked, following my gaze. The crow cawed in response, and the sound echoed loudly around us, reverberating through the trees. Through my bones. Frowning, Ismay drew Gabrielle closer. Nicholina had disappeared.

“It’s—” I rubbed my chest as the tugging sensation grew stronger. It seemed to be pulling me . . . inward. I dug in my feet, bewildered, and glanced at the sky. Gray light filtered toward us from the east. My heart sank.

Our time was almost up.

In one last effort, I called the patterns back to sight. They remained as chaotic as ever. In a spectacular show of temper—or perhaps desperation—I waded through them, determined to find something, anything, that could help locate him before the sun truly rose. Vaguely, I heard Ansel’s concerned voice in the background, but I ignored it. The pressure in my chest built to a breaking point. With each pattern I touched, I gasped, startled by an innate sense of wrongness. It felt . . . it felt as if these weren’t my patterns at all. But that was ludicrous, impossible—

A speck of white glinted amidst the golden cords.

As soon as I touched it, a single white cord pulsed to life—wrapping around my fingers, my wrist, my arm—and my sixth sense sharpened to crystal clarity. Finally. With a sigh of relief, I whipped my head east once more, gauging the time we had left.

“What’s happening?” Ansel asked, alarmed.

“I found him.”

Without another word, I tore into the forest, following the white blaze of light. Racing against the sunrise. The others crashed after me, and the crow careened from its branch with an indignant caw! Snow flew everywhere. Fiercely hopeful, invigorated, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Where is he?” Ismay cried, struggling to keep up.

“How does it work?” Gaby soon outpaced her. “Your—your pattern?”

Ansel tripped on a root, nearly decapitating himself on a lower bough. “Why now?”

I ignored them all, ignoring the burn in my lungs and running faster. We had a chance now—a real chance to procure this alliance. The white pattern continued to pulse, leading me closer and closer to victory, and I nearly crowed in triumph. La Voisin hadn’t expected me to find him. I’d prove her wrong, prove them all wrong.

My certainty punctured slightly as the trees thinned around us and the first tents of camp came into view.

“He’s—he’s here?” Face flushed and breath heavy, Ismay looked around wildly. “Where? I don’t see him.”

I slowed as the pattern wove through the campsite—between firepits and caged animals, past Coco and Babette—before curving down the slope toward . . .

Toward our tent.

I stumbled those last few steps, rounding the corner and skidding to a halt. The pattern burst in a cloud of glittering white dust, and my blood ran cold. Ismay’s scream confirmed what I already knew.

Propped against the pole of our tent was the corpse of a young man with auburn hair.

The Fool

Reid

“Er—” Toulouse blinked at me the next morning, his baguette still caught between his teeth. Hastily, he tore off a chunk, chewed, and swallowed—then choked. Thierry thumped his back with silent laughter. I still hadn’t heard him speak a word. “Come again?”

“Your tattoo,” I repeated stiffly. Heat crept up my neck at the awkwardness. I’d never needed to make friends before. I’d never even needed to get to know someone. I’d simply always known Célie and Jean Luc. And Lou . . . suffice it to say, there’d never been any awkward silences in our relationship. She always filled them. “What does it mean?”

Toulouse’s black eyes still watered. “Straight to the personal questions, eh?”

“It’s on your face.”

“Touché.” He grinned, contorting the tattoo on his cheek. Small. Golden. A rose. It gleamed metallic. When I’d sat next to him and his brother to break my fast, it’d been the first thing I’d seen. The first question out of my mouth. My neck still burned. Perhaps it hadn’t been the right question to ask. Perhaps it’d been too . . . personal. How could I have known? He’d inked the thing right on his cheek.

Across the fire, Madame Labelle ate her morning meal—cantal cheese and salted ham—with Zenna and Seraphine. Clearly, she hoped to befriend them like she hoped I’d befriend the St. Martins. Her attempts had been met with more enthusiasm than my own; Zenna preened under her praise, swelling like a peacock. Even Seraphine seemed reluctantly pleased at the attention. Behind them, Beau cursed. Deveraux had coerced him into helping with the horses, and it sounded as though he’d just stepped in dung.

My morning could’ve been worse.

Slightly mollified, I returned my attention to Toulouse and Thierry.

When they’d entered the amber wagon last night, I’d feigned sleep, torn with indecision. It still didn’t sit right, my mother’s plan. It still felt deceitful to feign friendship. But if deceit would defeat Morgane, if it would help Lou, I could pretend. I could tolerate magic.

I could befriend whoever wielded it here.

Toulouse drew a deck from his pocket, flicking a single card toward me. I caught it instinctively. In thick paints of black, white, and gold, the card depicted a boy standing on a cliff. He held a rose in his hand. A dog stood at his feet.

My first instinct was to recoil. The Church had never tolerated tarot cards. The Archbishop had counseled King Auguste to ban all variety of them from Cesarine years ago. He’d claimed their divination mocked the omniscience of God. He’d claimed those who partook in them would be damned to Hell.

He’d claimed so many things.