But what did dead magic mean?

When the sun touched the pines, Ismay and Gaby moved in sync, sweeping the ashes into their whitewashed pot. Gabrielle clutched it to her chest, and a sob escaped her. Though Ismay hugged her tightly, she murmured no words of comfort. Indeed, no one said a word as the two started into the forest. A sort of ritualistic procession formed—first Ismay and Gaby, second La Voisin and Coco, third Nicholina and Babette. The other mourners fell into place behind them until the entire camp trod an unspoken path through the trees—a path they knew well, it seemed. Still no one spoke.

“A soul caught between this life and the next is agitated,” Coco had explained. “Confused. They see us here but can’t touch us, can’t speak with us. We soothe them with silence and lead them to the nearest grove.”

A grove. The final resting place of a blood witch.

Ansel and I waited until the last mourner had passed before joining the procession, journeying deeper into the forest. Absalon’s tail soon brushed my boots. To my dismay, a black fox joined him. She stalked through the shadows nearest me, her pointed nose swiveling in my direction with every few steps, her amber eyes gleaming. Ansel hadn’t noticed her yet, but he soon would. Everyone would.

I’d never heard of a person attracting two matagots.

Miserable, I focused on Gaby’s auburn braid through a gap in the procession. She and Ismay slowed as we entered a copse of silver birch trees. Snow coated their spindly branches, illuminated by soft white light as feu follet winked into existence around us. Legend claimed they led to the deepest desires of one’s heart.

My mother had once told me about a witchling who’d followed them. She’d never been seen again.

Clutching Ansel tighter when he gazed at them, I murmured, “Don’t look.”

He blinked and halted mid-step, shaking his head. “Thank you.”

From the spindly branches of the birch trees, a dozen clay pots blew gently in the wind. Reddish-brown symbols had been painted on each in unique designs, and wind chimes—complete with feathers and beads—hung from most. The few unadorned pots appeared to be so old that their markings had chipped and flaked from the elements. In unison, La Voisin and Coco drew twin daggers from their cloaks, pulled down their collars, and drew the blades across their bare chests, using fresh blood to paint over the faded symbols. When they’d finished, Ismay joined them, accepting a dagger and making an identical cut on her own chest.

I watched in fascination as she painted one last symbol on her son’s pot. When she hung it with the others, La Voisin clasped her hands and faced the procession. Every eye turned to her. “His ashes and spirit ascend. Etienne, know peace.”

A sob escaped Ismay when La Voisin inclined her head, ending the simple ceremony. Her kin rushed to console her.

Coco extricated herself from the crowd and found us a moment later, her eyes silvered with tears. She rolled them determinedly toward the sky and heaved a great sigh. “I will not cry. I won’t.”

I offered her my free elbow, and she linked hers through mine, forming a human chain. The cut at her chest still bled freely, staining the neck of her gown. “It’s perfectly acceptable to cry at funerals, Coco. Or anytime you like, for that matter.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Your tears won’t set the world on fire.”

“That is so badass.” She gave a weak chuckle, and warmth spread through me at the sound. It’d been too long since we’d done this. Too long since we’d spoken so simply. “This place is beautiful.”

Ansel nodded to Etienne’s pot, where Ismay’s blood still gleamed against the white clay. “What do the markings mean?”

“They’re spells.”

“Spells?”

“Yes, Ansel. Spells. They protect our remains from those who’d use them for foul purposes. Our magic lives on with our ashes,” she explained at his furrowed brow. “If we scattered them across the land, we’d only strengthen our enemies.” Here, she gave me an apologetic look, but I merely shrugged. Our kin might’ve been enemies, but we were not them.

Fresh tears gathered as her gaze returned to the pots. To Ismay keening beneath them.

“I hardly even knew him,” she whispered. “It’s just—all of this—” She waved a hand around us and hung her head. Her arm went slack. “It’s my fault.”

“What?” Dropping Ansel’s elbow, I spun to grip her shoulders. “Coco, no. None of this is your fault. Your people—they would never blame you for what happened here.”

“That’s exactly the point, isn’t it?” She wiped her eyes furiously. “They should. I abandoned them. Twice. They’re freezing and starving and so afraid, yet their own princesse couldn’t be bothered to care. I should’ve been here, Lou. I should’ve—I don’t know—”

“Controlled the weather?” My hands joined hers, wiping at her tears. Though they burned my skin, I didn’t pull away, blinking rapidly against the moisture in my own eyes. “Single-handedly defeated Morgane? You didn’t know, Coco. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, I did.” She wrenched the crown from her head, glaring at the glittering rubies. “How can I lead them? How can I even look at them? I knew their suffering, and I fled anyway, while their conditions only worsened.” She tossed the crown into the snow. “I am no princesse.”

To my surprise—perhaps because I’d forgotten he still stood with us—Ansel bent to retrieve it. With impossibly gentle hands, he placed it back on her head. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

“And you are our princesse, mon amour,” Babette said, appearing at her side. She smiled at Ansel, not guileful but genuine, and straightened Coco’s crown. “If it wasn’t in your blood, it is in your heart. No other cares so much. You are better than us all.”

They both stared at her with such warm affection—such adoration—that my heart twisted. I did not envy her this choice. And Beau . . . he wasn’t even here to offer his handsome, sneering face as an alternative. Taking pity on her, I turned her shoulders to face me. “They’re right. You’re doing everything you can to help them now. When Morgane is dead—when I—afterward, your people will be welcome in the Chateau again. We just need to keep focus.”

Though she nodded swiftly, instinctively, her face remained grim. “I’m not sure she’ll join us, Lou. She—”

A scream overpowered the rest of her words, and Ismay bolted through the crowd, face wild. “Where is Gabrielle? Where is she?” She whirled, shrieking, “Gabrielle!” Though hands reached out to her—though La Voisin herself attempted to calm her with steady words and soothing touches—Ismay ignored them all, darting toward me with frantic eyes. She gripped my arms hard enough to bruise. “Have you seen my daughter?”

Panic closed my throat. “I—”

“Could she have followed the feu follet?” Placing a hand on Ismay’s, Coco tried and failed to pry me free. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Tears spilled down Ismay’s cheeks, peppering the snow with black flowers. Begonias. I’d learned their meaning from a naturalist tutor at the Chateau. “I—I don’t remember. She was with me during the procession, but I let go of her hand to finish Etienne’s pot.”

Beware.

They meant beware.

“Don’t panic,” another witch said. “This isn’t the first time Gabrielle has run off. It won’t be the last.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” another added. “Overwhelmed, perhaps. So much grief is hard on one so young.”

“We were all right here,” said a third, voicing what everyone else was thinking. “Surely none could have stolen her from the heart of our coven. We would have seen.”

“They’re right.” Coco finally succeeded in loosening Ismay’s grip, and blood rushed back into my arms. “We’ll find her, Ismay.” When she looked at me, however, her eyes said what her mouth did not: one way or another.

I only half listened as the blood witches spread out across the grove in search of her.

I knew in my bones what had happened here. Morgane must’ve rejoiced when she’d discovered not one but two of the king’s children hidden in this camp. Her timing, as always, had been unerring. She’d planned this.

Twenty-seven children, Madame Labelle had said. The king had sired twenty-seven children at her last count. Surely finding them would be like finding needles in a haystack. But Morgane was nothing if not tenacious. She would find them, she would torture them, and she would kill them. And it was all because of me.

“Look here!” an unfamiliar witch cried after several long moments. Every person in the clearing turned to stare at what she held in her hands.

A scarlet ribbon.

And there—staining the witch’s palms on contact—

Blood.