Rolling his eyes, he pushed me the final few steps. “Chasseurs stand as an act of humility.”

“But I’m not a Chasseur—”

“And praise God for that.” Jean Luc stepped aside to make room for us, and my domineering husband forced me between them. They clasped forearms with tense smiles. “I didn’t know if you’d be joining us, given the fiasco this afternoon. How did His Eminence handle the news?”

“He didn’t blame us.”

“Who did he blame, then?”

My husband’s eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds before returning to Jean Luc’s. “The initiates on duty. They’ve been relieved of their positions.”

“Rightfully so.”

I knew better than to correct him. Fortunately, their conversation ended when the congregation stood and began to chant. My husband and Jean Luc joined in seamlessly as the Archbishop and his attendants entered the sanctuary, proceeded up the aisle, and bowed to the altar. Bewildered—and unable to comprehend a word of their dreary ballad—I made up my own lyrics.

They may or may not have involved a barmaid named Liddy.

My husband scowled and elbowed me as silence descended once more. Though I couldn’t be sure, Jean Luc’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh.

The Archbishop turned to greet the congregation. “May the Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” they murmured in unison.

I watched in morbid fascination as the Archbishop lifted his arms wide. “Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.”

A priest beside him lifted his voice. “Lord, have mercy!”

“You were sent to heal the contrite of heart,” the Archbishop continued. “Lord, have mercy!”

The congregation joined in. “Lord, have mercy!”

“You came to gather the nations into the peace of God’s kingdom. Lord, have mercy!”

The peace of God’s kingdom? I scoffed, crossing my arms. My husband elbowed me again, mouthing, Stop it. His blue eyes bored into mine. I’m serious. Jean Luc definitely grinned now.

“Lord, have mercy!”

“You come in word and sacrament to strengthen us in holiness. Lord, have mercy!”

“Lord, have mercy!”

“You will come in glory with salvation for your people. Lord, have mercy!”

“Lord, have mercy!”

Unable to help myself, I muttered, “Hypocrite.”

My husband looked likely to expire. His face had flushed red again, and a vein throbbed in his throat. The Chasseurs around us either glared or chuckled. Jean Luc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but I didn’t find the situation quite as funny as before. Where was my kin’s salvation? Where was our mercy?

“May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”

“Amen.”

The congregation immediately began another chant, but I stopped listening. Instead, I watched as the Archbishop lifted his arms to the heavens, closing his eyes and losing himself in the song. As Jean Luc grinned, nudging my husband when they both sang the wrong words. As my husband grudgingly laughed and pushed him away.

“You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us,” the boy in front of us sang. He clutched his father’s hand, swaying to the cadence of their voices. “You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. You take away the sins of the world, receive our prayer.”

Have mercy on us.

Receive our prayer.

At the end of my Proverbs torture session, there’d been a verse I hadn’t understood.

As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.

“What does it mean?”

“It means . . . water is like a mirror,” my husband had explained, frowning slightly. “It reflects our faces back to us. And our lives—the way we live, the things we do—” He’d looked at his hands, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “They reflect our hearts.”

It’d made perfect sense, explained like that. And yet . . . I looked around at the worshippers once more—the men and women who pleaded for mercy and cried for my blood on the same breath. How could both be in their hearts?

“Lou, I’m—” He’d cleared his throat and forced himself to look at me. Those blue eyes had shone with sincerity. With regret. “I shouldn’t have shouted earlier. In the library. I’m . . . sorry.”

Our lives reflect our hearts.

Yes, it’d made perfect sense, explained like that, but I still didn’t understand. I didn’t understand my husband. I didn’t understand the Archbishop. Or the dancing boy. Or his father. Or Jean Luc or the Chasseurs or the witches or her. I didn’t understand any of them.

Conscious of the Chasseurs’ eyes on me, I forced a smirk and bumped my husband’s hip, pretending that it’d all been a show. A laugh. That I’d just been goading him to get a reaction. That I wasn’t a witch in Mass, standing amongst my enemies and worshiping someone else’s god.

Our lives reflect our hearts.

They might’ve all been hypocrites, but I was the biggest one of all.

Madame Labelle

Reid

The next evening was the first snowfall of the year.

I sat up from the floor, brushing back my sweaty hair, and watched the flakes drift past the window. Only exercise worked the knots from my back. After stumbling upon me on the floor last night, Lou had claimed the bed. She hadn’t invited me to join her.

I didn’t complain. Though my back ached, the exercise kept my irritation in check. I’d quickly learned counting didn’t work with Lou . . . namely, after she’d started counting right along with me.

She slammed the book she was reading down on the desk. “This is absolute drivel.”

“What is it?”

“The only book I could find in that wretched library without the words holy or extermination in the title.” She lifted it up for me to see. Shepherd. I almost chuckled. It’d been one of the first books the Archbishop had allowed me to read—a collection of pastoral poems about God’s artistry in nature.

She flounced to my bed—her bed—with a disgruntled expression. “How anyone can write about grass for twelve pages is beyond me. That’s the real sin.”

I hoisted myself to my feet and approached. She eyed me warily. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you a secret.”

“No, no, no.” She scrambled backward. “I’m not interested in your secret—”

“Please.” Scowling and shaking my head, I walked past her to my headboard. “Stop talking.”

To my surprise, she complied, her narrowed eyes watching me scoot the bed frame from the wall. She leaned forward curiously when I revealed the small, rough-hewn hole behind it. My vault. At sixteen—when Jean Luc and I had shared this room, when we’d been closer than brothers—I’d gouged it into the mortar, desperate for a place of my own. A place to hide the parts of myself I’d rather him not find.

Perhaps we’d never been closer than brothers, after all.

Lou craned her neck to see inside, but I blocked her view, rifling through the items until my fingers grazed the familiar book. Though the spine had begun to split from use, the silver thread of the title remained pristine. Immaculate. I handed it to her. “Here.”

She accepted it gingerly, holding it between two fingers as if expecting it to bite her. “Well, this is unexpected. La Vie éphémère . . .” She looked up from the cover, lips pursed. “The Fleeting Life. What’s it about?”

“It’s . . . a love story.”

Her brows shot up, and she examined the cover with newfound interest. “Oh?”

“Oh.” I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “It’s tastefully done. The characters are from warring kingdoms, but they’re forced to work together when they uncover a plot to destroy the world. They loathe each other initially, but in time, they’re able to set aside their differences and—”

“It’s a bodice-ripper, isn’t it?” She waggled her eyebrows devilishly, flitting through the pages to the end. “Usually the love scenes are toward the back—”

“What?” My urge to smile vanished, and I tugged it from her grasp. She tugged it back. “Of course it isn’t,” I snapped, grappling for it. “It’s a story that examines the social construct of humanity, interprets the nuance of good versus evil, and explores the passion of war, love, friendship, death—”

“Death?”

“Yes. The lovers die at the end.” She recoiled, and I snatched the book away. My cheeks burned. I never should’ve shared it with her. Of course she wouldn’t appreciate it. She didn’t appreciate anything. “This was a mistake.”

“How can you cherish a book that ends in death?”

“It doesn’t end in death. The lovers die, yes, but the kingdoms overcome their enmity and forge an alliance. It ends in hope.”

She frowned, unconvinced. “There’s nothing hopeful about death. Death is death.”

I sighed and turned to place the book back in my vault. “Fine. Don’t read it. I don’t care.”

“I never said I didn’t want to read it.” She held out a hand impatiently. “Just don’t expect me to develop your weirdly evangelical zeal. The plot sounds dreary, but it can’t be worse than Shepherd.”

I clutched La Vie éphémère with both hands, hesitating. “It doesn’t describe grass.”