I closed my eyes in defeat. The memory of Etienne’s head on my boot soon rose up to meet me, however, forcing them open once more. It would be Gabrielle’s head next. Even now—at this very second—Morgane could be mutilating her tiny body. She would shear her auburn braid and slice her pale throat—

Ismay’s cries turned hysterical, and the others soon took up her panicked call.

Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Gabrielle!

Her name echoed within the grove, between the trees. Inside my mind. As if in response, the feu follet flickered out one by one, leaving us in darkness. Despite their frantic attempts to conjure a tracking spell, they knew her fate as well as I did. We all knew.

Gabrielle didn’t answer.

She never would.

At long last, Ismay fell to her knees, weeping, pounding the snow in anguish.

I wrapped my arms around my waist, doubling over against the nausea, but a hand caught my nape, forcing me upright. Cold, dark eyes met my own. “Compose yourself.” La Voisin’s grip hardened. When I tried to wriggle away, biting back a cry of pain, she watched me struggle with grim determination. “Your wish has been granted, Louise le Blanc. The Dames Rouges will join you in Cesarine, and I myself will rend your mother’s beating heart from her chest.”

The First Performance

Reid

Twilight had settled over Domaine-les-Roses when Claud took to his stage the next evening—a cracked fountain in town square, its basin filled with leaves and snow. Ice coated the rim, but he didn’t slip as he danced along it. With fingers as deft as his feet, he plucked a mandolin in a lively rhythm. The audience shouted their approval. Some divided into couples, laughing and spinning wildly, while others showered Seraphine’s feet with petals. Her voice rose above the crowd. Unearthly. Passionate. Too beautiful to be human.

When I pulled at my leather trousers, sullen, my mother tipped her cup toward me. Inside, a pink-colored liquid swirled. The villagers of Domaine-les-Roses fermented their own rose petal wine. “This might help, you know.”

I arched a brow, readjusting my pants again. “I doubt it.”

She’d donned a new dress for our performance tonight. Black and white. Garish. The edges of her mask had been trimmed with ludicrous poms. Still, no one had assaulted her with kohl. My eyes burned. Itched.

Zenna hadn’t told me how to remove it without blinding myself.

Worse still—Deveraux hadn’t provided a shirt with my costume. I’d been forced to strap my bandolier to my bare chest. Though I’d thrown on a coat for modesty’s sake—and to protect against the bitter wind—I doubted he’d allow it during The Red Death’s performance.

I told myself it was for the best. If a Chasseur hid in the audience, he wouldn’t recognize me. He wouldn’t suspect his once great captain of parading shirtless. Of flinging knives or lining his eyes with cosmetics. Of wearing a mask that extended into horns. I was ridiculous. Debased. Heat burned my throat, my ears, as a memory surfaced.

It won’t kill you to live a little, you know.

I’m a Chasseur, Lou. We don’t . . . frolic.

Glaring out at the festivities from the stoop of a boulangerie, I watched as Beau wove through the audience with a tin can and hooded cloak. In his free hand, he held a wooden scythe. Deveraux had thought it a fitting addition to the sinister costume. In the alley beside us, Toulouse and Thierry had set up a tent to peddle their services. To lure the weak with promises of fame and fortune-filled futures. Women paraded past them, batting their lashes. Blowing kisses. I couldn’t fathom it.

“They’re handsome,” Madame Labelle explained, smirking as Toulouse caught a girl’s hand and kissed it. “You can’t fault them for that.”

I could, and I did. If the villagers’ feathered ensembles were any indication, Domaine-les-Roses was a bizarre town.

“Being young and beautiful isn’t a crime, Reid.” She pointed to the young woman nearest us, who’d been watching me for the last quarter hour. Bold. Blond. Buxom. “You have many admirers yourself.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Ah, yes.” She winked at her own admirers. “For a moment, I forgot I spoke to the inexorable Saint Reid.”

“I’m not a saint. I’m married.”

“To whom? Louise Larue? I’m afraid the girl doesn’t exist.”

My fingers stilled around the knife in my hand. “And what’s my name, Maman?” She stiffened at the word, her eyes flying wide. Vicious satisfaction stole through me. “Diggory, Lyon, or Labelle? Should I choose one arbitrarily?” When she didn’t answer, opening and closing her mouth—spots of color blooming high on her cheeks—I turned away. Resumed rotating my knife. “A name isn’t a person. I don’t care what a stupid piece of paper says hers is. I made a vow, and I will honor it. Besides,” I muttered, “these girls look like birds.”

These girls aren’t Lou.

“You think Louise has never worn feathers in her hair?” Madame Labelle returned to herself with a thready laugh. “Those are swan feathers, dear boy, and we wear them to honor the Maiden. See that bonfire? The villagers will light it for Imbolc next month—as Louise has done every year since her birth, I assure you.”

My eyes sharpened with newfound interest on the girl, on the revelers near her. They clapped and stamped their feet to Claud’s mandolin, shouting praises. Fingers sticky from honey almond fritters. Rosemary biscuits. Seeded rolls. I frowned. The entire square reeked of vitality. Vitality—not fear. “They dare celebrate Imbolc?”

“You are far from Cesarine, my dear.” She patted my knee. Belatedly, I glanced at the door behind me, at the doors of all the shops lining the street. Not a single wanted poster. Whether Claud or the villagers had removed them, I didn’t know. “In the north, the old ways are still more common than you think. But don’t fret. Your brethren are too thick-witted to realize what swan feathers and bonfires mean.”

“They aren’t thick-witted.” A knee-jerk response. I ducked my head when she chuckled.

“I had to enlighten you, didn’t I? How can you condemn your culture if you don’t know your culture?”

“I don’t want to know my culture.”

Sighing heavily, she rolled her eyes. “Mother’s tits, you are petulant.”

I whirled to face her, incredulous. “What did you just say?”

She lifted her chin, hands clasped in her lap. The picture of poise and grace. “Mother’s tits. It’s a common enough expletive at the Chateau. I could tell you all about life there if you’d unclog the wax from your ears.”

“I—I don’t want to hear about my mother’s tits!” Cheeks flaming, I stood, determined to put as much distance between myself and that disturbing image as possible.

“Not mine, you blathering ingrate. The Mother’s. As in the Triple Goddess. When a woman grows a child in her womb, her breasts swell in preparation for feeding—”

“No.” I shook my head vehemently. “No, no, no, no, no. We aren’t discussing this.”

“Honestly, Reid, it’s the most natural thing in the world.” She patted the spot beside her. “You’ve been raised in a grossly masculine environment, however, so I’ll forgive your immaturity just this—oh, for goodness’ sake, sit.” She caught my wrist as I tried to flee, pulling me down beside her. “I know I’m in dangerous territory, but I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you.”

I forced myself to look at her. “Breasts?”

She rolled her eyes. “No. Louise.” At my bewildered expression, she said, “Are you . . . sure about her?”

The question—so unexpected, so absurd—jarred me to my senses. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Tilting her chin, she seemed to think hard on her next words. A wise decision. She was in dangerous territory. “You met only a few months ago. How well can you really know her?”

“Better than you could,” I growled.

“I doubt that very much. Morgane was my dearest childhood friend. I loved her, and she loved me. We were closer than sisters.”

“So?”

“So I know how alluring the le Blanc women can be.” As if sensing the rising tide in me, she plucked my knife away and sheathed it in her boot. “To be near them is to love them. They’re wild and free and excessive. Addictive. They consume us. They make us feel alive.” My hands trembled. I clenched them into fists. “But they’re also dangerous. This will always be your life with her—running, hiding, fighting. You will never know peace. You will never know family. You will never grow old with her, son. One way or another, Morgane will not allow it.”

Her words knocked the breath from me. A second passed as I regained it. “No. We’ll kill Morgane.”

“Louise loves her mother, Reid.”

I shook my head vehemently. “No—”