Serpent & Dove

My throat is weeping.

Not tears. Something thicker, darker. Something that bathes my skin in scarlet, streams down my chest and soaks my hair, my dress, my hands. My hands. They scrabble at the source, fingers probing, searching, choking—desperate to stem the flow, desperate to make it stop, stop, stop— Shouts are echoing around me through the pines. They disorient me. I can’t think. But I need to think, to flee. And she’s behind me, somewhere, stalking me. I can hear her voice, her laughter. She calls to me, and my name on her lips rings loudest of all.

Louise . . . I’m coming for you, darling.

Coming for you, darling Coming for you, darling . . . darling . . . darling . . .

Blind terror. She can’t find me here. I can’t go back, or—or something terrible will happen. Gold still flickers. It lingers on the trees, the ground, the sky, scattering my thoughts like the blood on the pines. Warning me. Leave, leave, leave. You can’t come back here. Never again.

I’m lunging into the river now, scrubbing my skin, washing away the trail of blood that follows me. Frantic. Feverish. The slash at my throat closes, the sharp pain receding the farther I run from home. The farther I run from my friends. My family. Her.

Never again never again never again I can’t see any of them ever again.

A life for a life.

Or I’ll die.

I woke with a start, my eyes darting to the window. Flushed and agitated, I’d left it open last night. Snow coated the ledge in fine powder, and occasional gusts of wind blew snowflakes into our room. I watched them swirl through the air, trying to ignore the icy fear that had settled in the pit of my stomach. Blankets weren’t enough to warm the chill in my bones. My teeth chattered.

Though I hadn’t heard all of Madame Labelle’s frantic words, her warning had been clear.

She is coming.

I sat up, rubbing my arms against the chill. Who was Madame Labelle, really? And how had she known about me? I’d been naive to think I could truly disappear. I’d lied to myself when I’d worn my disguises—when I married a Chasseur.

I’d never be safe.

My mother would find me.

Though I’d practiced again this morning, it wasn’t enough. I needed to train harder. Every day. Twice a day. I needed to be stronger when she arrived—to be able to fight. A weapon wouldn’t hurt either. In the morning, I would search for one. A knife, a sword. Anything.

Unable to stand my thoughts any longer, I swung from the bed and dropped to the floor beside my husband. He breathed, slow and rhythmic. Peaceful. Nightmares didn’t plague his sleep. Slipping beneath the blankets, I pressed close to him. Rested my cheek against his back and savored his warmth as it seeped into my skin. My eyes fluttered shut, and my breathing slowed to match his.

In the morning. I would deal with everything in the morning.

His breathing faltered slightly as I drifted to sleep.



A Clever Little Witch



Lou



The small mirror above the basin was unkind the next morning. I scowled at my reflection. Pale cheeks, swollen eyes. Dry lips. I looked like death. I felt like death.

The bedroom door opened, but I continued staring at myself, lost in thought. Nightmares had always plagued my sleep, but last night—last night had been worse. I stroked the scar at the base of my throat softly, remembering.

It had been my sixteenth birthday. A witch entered womanhood at sixteen. My fellow witchlings had been excited for theirs, anxious to receive their rites as Dames Blanches.

I’d been different. I’d always known my sixteenth birthday would be the day I died. I’d accepted it—welcomed it, even, when my sisters had showered me with love and praise. My purpose since birth had been to die. Only my death could save my people.

But as I’d laid on that altar, the blade pressing into my throat, something had changed.

I had changed.

“Lou?” My husband’s voice echoed through the door. “Are you decent?”

I didn’t answer him. Humiliation burned in my gut at last night’s weakness. I clenched the basin, glaring at myself. I’d actually slept on the floor to be close to him. Weak.

“Lou?” When I still didn’t respond, he cracked the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Ansel hovered behind him, face drawn and concerned. I rolled my eyes at my reflection.

“What’s wrong?” My husband’s eyes searched my face. “Has something happened?”

I forced a smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”

They exchanged glances, and my husband jerked his head to the door. I pretended not to notice as Ansel left, as an awkward silence descended.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally.

“A dangerous pastime.”

He ignored me, swallowing hard. He had the air of someone about to rip off a bandage—equal parts determined and terrified. “There’s a show at Soleil et Lune tonight. Maybe we could go?”

“What show is it?”

“La Vie éphémère.”

Of course it was. I chuckled without humor, staring at the shadows beneath my eyes. After Madame Labelle’s visit, I’d stayed up late into the night finishing Emilie and Alexandre’s story to distract myself. They’d lived and loved and died together—and for what?

It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.

Hope.

A hope they would never see, would never feel, would never touch. As elusive as smoke. As flickering flames.

The story was more fitting than my husband would ever know. The universe—or God, or the Goddess, or whoever—seemed to be poking fun at me. And yet . . . I glanced around at the stone walls. My cage. It’d be nice to escape this wretched place, even for a little while.

“Fine.”

I made to move past him into the bedroom, but he blocked the doorway. “Is something bothering you?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Well I am concerned with it. You aren’t yourself.”

I managed a sneer, but it was too difficult to maintain. I yawned instead. “Don’t pretend to know me.”

“I know if you aren’t swearing or singing about well-endowed barmaids, something is wrong.” His mouth quirked, and he tentatively touched my shoulder, blue eyes sparkling. Like the sun on the ocean. I shook the thought away irritably. “What is it? You can tell me.”

No, I can’t. I turned away from his touch. “I said I’m fine.”

He dropped his hand, eyes shuttering. “Right. I’ll leave you alone then.”

I watched him leave with a twinge of what felt strangely like regret.

I poked my head out after a few moments, hoping he’d still be there, but he’d gone. My foul mood only worsened when I saw Ansel sitting at the desk. He watched me apprehensively, as if expecting me to sprout horns and spew fire—which, in this case, was exactly what I felt like doing.

I stormed toward him, and he leapt to his feet. A savage sort of satisfaction stole through me at his skittishness—then guilt. None of this was Ansel’s fault, and yet . . . I couldn’t force my spirits to lift. My dream still lingered. Unfortunately, so did Ansel.

“C-Can I help you with something?”

I ignored him, shouldering past his lanky form and yanking the desk drawer open. The journal and letters were still gone, leaving only a worn Bible inside. No knife. Damn it. I knew it’d been a long shot, but irritation—or perhaps fear—made me irrational. I turned and stomped toward the bed.

Ansel shadowed my footsteps, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for a weapon.” I scratched at the headboard, trying and failing to pry it from the wall.

“A weapon?” His voice hitched incredulously. “W-What do you need a weapon for?”

I threw my weight against the blasted thing, but it was too heavy. “In case Madame Labelle or—er, someone else comes back. Help me with this.”

He didn’t move. “Someone else?”

I bit back a growl of impatience. It didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t have hidden a knife in his little hole anyway. Not after he’d shown it to me.

Dropping to my stomach, I wriggled under the bed frame. The floorboards were spotless. Practically clean enough to eat from. I wondered if it was the maids or my husband with the obsessive tendencies. Probably my husband. He seemed the type. Controlling. Freakishly neat.

Ansel repeated his question, closer this time, but I ignored him, probing the floor for a hidden seam or loose board. There was nothing. Undeterred, I began knocking at regular intervals, listening for a telltale hollow thud.

Ansel stuck his head beneath the bed. “There are no weapons under here.”

“That’s exactly what I’d expect you to say.”

“Madame Diggory—”

“Lou.”

He cringed in a perfect imitation of my husband. “Louise, then—”

“No.” I whipped my head around to glare at him in the dark space, cracking my head against the frame and swearing violently. “Not Louise. Now move. I’m coming out.”

He blinked in confusion at the reprimand but scrambled back regardless. I crawled out after him.

There was an awkward pause.

“I don’t know why you’re so frightened of Madame Labelle,” he said finally, “but I assure you—”