The Chasseur, who still held me atop him from our fall, stared up at me with wide eyes. I watched—numb—as dozens of emotions flitted across his face. Shock. Panic. Humiliation. Rage.

The hook-nosed girl skidded out after us, and the spell was broken. “You disgusting pig!”

The Chasseur flung me away like I’d bitten him, and I landed on my backside. Hard. Angry cries from the audience erupted as my dress gaped open. They took in my bruised face, my torn bodice, and made their own assumptions. But I didn’t care. Staring out at the audience, horror seeped through me as I imagined who could be staring back. The blood left my face.

The hook-nosed girl wrapped her arms around me, gently helping me to my feet and leading me backstage. Two burly crew members appeared and seized the Chasseur as well. The crowd shouted their approval as they frog-marched him behind us. I glanced back, surprised he wasn’t putting up a fight, but his face was as white as my own.

The girl grabbed a sheet from one of the crates and draped it around me. “Are you all right?”

I ignored her ridiculous question. Of course I wasn’t all right. What had just happened?

“Hopefully they throw him in prison.” She glared at the Chasseur, who stood amidst the crew in a daze. The audience still shouted their outrage.

“They won’t,” I said grimly. “He’s a Chasseur.”

“We’ll all give our statements.” She stuck her chin out and gestured to the crew. They hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do. “We saw the whole thing. You’re so lucky you were here.” She glanced at my torn dress, eyes flashing. “Who knows what could have happened?”

I didn’t correct her. I needed to leave. This whole fiasco had been a shoddy attempt at escape, and this was my last chance. The Chasseur couldn’t stop me now, but the constabulary would arrive soon. They wouldn’t care what the audience thought they’d seen. They’d cart me off to prison, regardless of my torn dress and bruises, and it would be all too easy for the Chasseurs to procure me once this mess had been sorted out.

I knew where that would lead. A stake and a match.

I’d just decided to throw caution to the winds and run for it—perhaps slip Angelica’s Ring between my teeth once I reached the stairwell—when the door to stage right creaked open.

My heart stopped as the Archbishop stepped through.

He was shorter than I thought, though still taller than me, with salt-and-pepper hair and steely blue eyes. They flared briefly as he took me in—the bruised face, the ratted hair, the sheet draped around my shoulders—then narrowed at the devastation around me. His lip curled.

He jerked his head toward the exit. “Leave us.”

The crew didn’t need to be told twice—and neither did I. I nearly tripped over my feet in an effort to vacate the premises as quickly as possible. The Chasseur’s hand snaked out and caught my arm.

“Not you,” the Archbishop commanded.

The hook-nosed girl hesitated, her eyes darting between the three of us. One look from the Archbishop, however, had her scurrying out the door.

The Chasseur released me the second she disappeared and bowed to the Archbishop, covering his heart with his fist. “This is the woman from Tremblay’s townhouse, Your Eminence.”

The Archbishop nodded curtly, his eyes returning to mine. Again they searched my face, and again they hardened—as if my worth had been tallied and found lacking. He clasped stiff hands behind his back. “So you are our escaped thief.”

I nodded, not daring to breathe. He’d said thief. Not witch.

“You have put us all in quite the predicament, my dear.”

“I—”

“Silence.”

My mouth snapped shut. I wasn’t stupid enough to argue with the Archbishop. If anyone dwelled above the law, it was him.

He walked toward me slowly, hands still clasped behind his back. “You’re a clever thief, aren’t you? Quite talented in eluding capture. How did you escape the rooftop last night? Captain Diggory assures me the townhouse was surrounded.”

I swallowed hard. There was that word again. Thief—not witch. Hope fluttered in my stomach. I glanced at the copper-haired Chasseur, but his face revealed nothing.

“My . . . my friend helped me,” I lied.

He raised a brow. “Your friend, the witch.”

Dread snaked down my spine. But Coco was miles away now—safe and hidden within La Forêt des Yeux. The Forest of Eyes. The Chasseurs would never be able to track her there. Even if they did, her coven would protect her.

I maintained careful eye contact, careful not to twitch or fidget or otherwise give myself away. “She is a witch, yes.”

“How?”

“How is she a witch?” Though I knew I shouldn’t bait him, I also couldn’t help it. “I believe when a witch and a man love each other very much—”

He struck me across the face. The slap echoed in the silence of the empty auditorium. Somehow, the audience had been cleared away as quickly as the crew. Clutching my cheek, I glared at him in silent fury. The Chasseur shifted uncomfortably beside me.

“You disgusting child.” The Archbishop’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “How did it help you escape?”

“I will not betray her secrets.”

“You dare to conceal information?”

A knock sounded from stage right, and a constable stepped forward. “Your Holiness, a crowd has formed outside. Several of the attendants and crew—they refuse to leave until they learn the fate of the girl and Captain Diggory. They are beginning to attract . . . attention.”

“We will be along shortly.” The Archbishop straightened and adjusted his choral robes, taking a deep breath. The constable bowed and ducked outside once more.

He returned his attention to me. A long moment of silence passed as we glared at each other. “What am I going to do with you?”

I dared not speak again. My face could only handle so much.

“You are a criminal who consorts with demons. You have publicly framed a Chasseur for assault, among . . . other things.” His lip curled, and he regarded me with palpable disgust. I tried and failed to ignore the shame churning in my stomach. It’d been an accident. I hadn’t framed him intentionally. And yet . . . if the audience’s misapprehension helped me escape the stake . . .

I’d never claimed to be honorable.

“Captain Diggory’s reputation will be ruined,” the Archbishop continued. “I will be forced to relieve him of his duties, lest the Chasseurs’ holiness be questioned. Lest my holiness be questioned.” His eyes burned into mine. I arranged my features into a contrite expression, lest his fist get twitchy again. Appeased by my repentance, he began to pace. “What am I going to do with you? What am I going to do?”

Though I clearly repulsed him, his steely eyes kept drifting back to me. Like a moth drawn to flame. They roved my face as if searching for something, lingering on my eyes, my nose, my mouth. My throat.

To my dismay, I realized the ribbon had slipped during my scuffle with the Chasseur. I hastily tightened it. The Archbishop’s mouth pursed, and he resumed staring at me.

It took all my willpower not to roll my eyes at his absurd inner struggle. I wasn’t going to prison today, and I wasn’t going to the stake, either. For whatever reason, the Archbishop and his pet had decided I wasn’t a witch. I certainly wasn’t going to question their oversight.

But the question remained . . . what did the Archbishop want? Because he definitely wanted something. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, and the sooner I figured it out, the sooner I could use it to my advantage. It took several seconds before I realized he’d continued his monologue.

“. . . thanks to your little sleight of hand.” He spun on his heel to face me, a peculiar sort of triumph in his expression. “Perhaps a mutually beneficial arrangement can be made.”

He paused, looking between us expectantly.

“I’m listening,” I muttered. The Chasseur nodded stiffly.

“Excellent. It’s quite simple, really—marriage.”

I stared at him, mouth falling open.

He chuckled, but the sound was without mirth. “As your wife, Reid, this distasteful creature would belong to you. You would’ve had every right to pursue her, to discipline her, especially after her indiscretions last night. It would have been expected. Necessary, even. There would have been no crime committed, no impurity to disparage. You would remain a Chasseur.”

I laughed. It came out a strangled, desperate sound. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

The Archbishop didn’t share my laughter. “You will if you wish to avoid a public lashing and imprisonment. Though I’m not chief of the constabulary, he is a dear friend.”

I gaped at him. “You can’t blackmail me—”

He waved a hand as if swatting an irksome fly. “It is the sentence that awaits a thief. I would advise you to think very carefully about this, child.”

I appealed to the Chasseur, determined to keep a level head despite the panic clawing up my throat. “You can’t want this. Please, tell him to find another way.”

“There is no other way,” the Archbishop interjected.