“Just leave me alone. I need time.”

He didn’t argue, and I didn’t watch him leave. When the door closed, I inched into the hot water. It steamed, nearly boiling, but was still a cool caress compared to the stake. I slipped beneath the surface, remembering the agony of the flames on my skin.

I’d spent years hiding from La Dame des Sorcières. My mother. I’d done terrible things to protect myself, to ensure my survival. Because above all else, that is what I did: I survived.

But at what cost?

I’d reacted instinctively with Estelle. It’d been her life or mine. The way forward had seemed clear. There had been only one choice. But . . . Estelle had been one of my own. A witch. She hadn’t wanted me dead—only to be free of the persecution plaguing our people.

Unfortunately, those two were mutually exclusive now.

I thought of her body, of the wind carrying away her ashes—and all the other ashes that had been carried away over the years.

I thought of Monsieur Bernard, rotting away on a bed upstairs—and all the others who had waited to die in torment.

Witches and people alike. One and the same. All innocent. All guilty.

All dead.

But not me.

When I was sixteen, my mother had tried to sacrifice me—her only child. Even before my conception, Morgane had seen a pattern no other Dame des Sorcières had seen before, had been willing to do what none of her predecessors had ever dreamed: kill her lineage. With my death, the king’s line also would’ve died. All his heirs, legitimate and bastard, would’ve ceased breathing with me. One life to end a hundred years’ worth of persecution. One life to end the Lyons’ reign of tyranny.

But my mother didn’t just want to kill the king. She wanted to hurt him. To destroy him. I could still imagine her pattern at the altar, shimmering around my heart and branching out into the darkness. Toward his children. The witches planned to strike amidst his grief. They planned to eviscerate what remained of the royal family . . . and everyone who followed them.

I broke through the surface of the water, gasping for breath.

All these years, I’ve been lying to myself, convinced I’d fled the altar because I couldn’t take the lives of innocents. Yet here I was with innocent blood on my hands.

I was a coward.

The pain of the realization went beyond my sensitive skin, beyond the agony of the flames. This time, I’d damaged something important. Something irrevocable. It ached deep inside me.

Witch killer.

For the first time in my life, I wondered if I’d made the right choice.

Coco checked on me later that day, her face drawn as she sat beside me on the bed. Ansel became inordinately interested in his coat buttons.

“How are you feeling?” She lifted a hand to stroke my hair. At her touch, all my wretched emotions flooded back to the surface. A tear escaped down my cheek. I wiped it away, scowling.

“Like hell.”

“We thought you were a goner.”

“I wish.”

Her hand stilled. “Don’t say that. You’ve just got a soul ache, that’s all. Nothing a few sticky buns can’t fix.”

My eyes snapped open. “A soul ache?”

“Sort of like a headache or stomachache, but much worse. I used to get them all the time when I lived with my aunt.” She smoothed my hair away from my face and leaned down, brushing another tear from my cheek. “It wasn’t your fault, Lou. You did what you had to.”

I stared at my hands for a long moment. “Why do I feel like such shit about it, then?”

“Because you’re a good person. I know it’s never pretty to take a life, but Estelle forced your hand. No one can blame you for what you did.”

“I’m sure Estelle would feel differently.”

“Estelle made her choice when she put her faith in your mother. She chose wrong. The only thing you can do now is move forward. Isn’t that right?” She nodded to Ansel, who blushed scarlet in the corner. I looked hastily away.

He knew now, of course. He would’ve smelled the magic. Yet here I was . . . alive. More tears pooled in my eyes. Stop it, I chided. Of course he didn’t tell on you. He’s the only decent man in this entire tower. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.

Throat constricting, I toyed with Angelica’s Ring, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

“I have to warn you,” Coco continued, “the kingdom is praising Reid as a hero. This is the first burning in months, and with the current climate, well . . . it’s been a celebration. King Auguste invited Reid to dine with him yesterday, but Reid refused.” At my questioning look, she pursed her lips in disapproval. “He didn’t want to leave you.”

Suddenly much too warm, I kicked my blankets away. “There was nothing heroic about what he did.”

She and Ansel exchanged a glance. “As his wife,” she said carefully, “you’re expected to think otherwise.”

I stared at her.

“Listen, Lou.” She sat back, heaving an impatient sigh. “I’m just looking out for you. People heard your screams during the execution. Many are very interested in why a witch burning sent you into hysterics—including the king. Reid finally accepted his dinner invitation this evening to placate him. You need to be careful. Everyone will be watching you extra closely now.” Her gaze flicked to Ansel. “And you know the stake isn’t just for witches. Witch sympathizers can meet a similar fate.”

My heart sank as I looked between them. “Oh, god. The two of you—”

“The three of us,” Ansel murmured. “You’re forgetting Reid. He’ll burn too.”

“He murdered Estelle.”

Ansel stared down at his boots, swallowing hard. “He believes Estelle was a demon. They all do. He . . . he was trying to protect you, Lou.”

I shook my head, furious tears threatening to spill once more. “But he’s wrong. Not all witches are evil.”

“I know you believe that,” Ansel said softly, “but you can’t force Reid to believe it.” He finally looked up, and his brown eyes held profound sadness—sadness someone his age never should’ve known. “There are some things that can’t be changed with words. Some things have to be seen. They have to be felt.”

He walked to the door but hesitated, looking over his shoulder at me. “I hope you can find your way forward together. He’s a good person, and . . . so are you.”

I watched him go in silence, desperate to ask how—how could a witch and witch hunter find their way forward together? How could I ever trust a man who would have me burned? How could I ever love him?

Ansel had been right about one thing, however. I couldn’t hold Reid fully accountable for what had happened to Estelle. He truly believed witches were evil. It was a part of him as much as his copper hair or towering height.

No, Estelle’s death wasn’t on Reid’s hands.

It was on mine.

Before Reid returned that evening, I crawled out of bed and dragged myself to his desk. My skin itched and burned as I healed—a constant reminder of the flames—but my limbs were a different story. My muscles and bones felt stiffer, heavier, as if they would pull me through the floor if they could. Each step to the desk was a struggle. Sweat beaded along my forehead, matted the hair on my neck.

Coco had said my fever would linger. I hoped it’d break soon.

Collapsing into the chair, I pulled the desk drawer open with the last of my energy. Reid’s faded old Bible still lay inside. With trembling fingers, I opened it and began to read—or tried to read, at least. His cramped handwriting filled every inch of the narrow margins. Though I brought the silk-thin pages clear to my nose, I couldn’t focus on the scripture without my vision swimming.

I tossed it back in the drawer with a disgruntled sigh.

Proving witches weren’t inherently evil might be harder than I anticipated.

Still, I’d formed a plan after Coco and Ansel had left this afternoon. If Ansel could be convinced we weren’t evil, perhaps Reid could too. In order to do that, I needed to understand his ideology. I needed to understand him. Cursing quietly, I rose to my feet once more, steeling myself for the descent into hell.

I’d have to visit the library.

Nearly a half hour later, I pushed open the dungeon door. A welcome draft of cold air swept across my sticky skin, and I sighed in relief. The corridor was quiet. Most of the Chasseurs had retired for the evening, and the rest were busy doing . . . whatever it was they did. Guarding the royal family. Protecting the guilty. Burning the innocent.

When I reached the library, however, the council room door swung open, and the Archbishop strolled out, licking what appeared to be icing from his fingers. In his other hand, he held a half-eaten sticky bun.