Shit. Before I could shove Angelica’s Ring in my mouth to disappear, he turned and spotted me. We both froze with our hands halfway to our mouth—equally absurd—but he recovered first, hiding the sticky bun hastily behind his back. A bit of icing remained on the tip of his nose.

“Louise! What—what are you doing down here?” He shook his head at my bewildered expression, clearing his throat, before rising to his full, inconsiderable height. “This is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave at once.”

“Sorry, I—” With a shake of my own head, I averted my gaze, looking anywhere but his nose. “I wanted to borrow a Bible.”

He stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns—ironic, given my request. “A what?”

“Is that a . . . bun?” I inhaled the cinnamon and vanilla deeply, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from my forehead. Despite the fever, saliva pooled in my mouth. I’d know that smell anywhere. That was my smell. What the hell was he doing with it? It didn’t belong in this dark, dismal place.

“Enough impertinent questions.” He scowled and wiped his fingers on the back of his robes surreptitiously. “If you truly seek to procure a Bible—which I doubt—I shall of course provide you with one, so long as you return to your room directly.” Reluctantly, his eyes assessed my face: the pale skin, the sweaty brow, the shadowed eyes. His expression softened. “You should be in bed, Louise. Your body needs time to—” He shook his head once more, catching himself, as if not quite sure what had gotten into him. I empathized. “Do not move from this spot.”

He pushed past me into the library, returning a moment later. “Here.” He thrust an ancient, dusty tome into my hands. Icing smeared the spine and cover. “Ensure you take care of it properly. This is the word of God.”

I ran my hand over the leather binding, tracing lines through the dust and icing. “Thank you. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

“No need.” He cleared his throat again, frowning and clasping his hands behind his back. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “It is yours. A gift, if you will.”

A gift. The words sent a bolt of displeasure through me, and I was struck by the oddity of this situation. The Archbishop, hiding the icing on his fingers. Me, clutching a Bible to my chest. “Right. Well, I’m going to go—”

“Of course. I, too, must retire—”

We parted ways with equally awkward nods.

Reid opened the bedroom door quietly that night. I shoved the Bible beneath his bed and greeted him with a guilty “Hello!”

“Lou!” He nearly leapt out of his skin. I might’ve even heard him curse. Eyes wide, he tossed his coat on the desk and approached warily. “It’s late. What are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” My teeth chattered, and I burrowed deeper into the blanket in which I’d cocooned myself.

He touched a hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up. Have you visited the infirmary?”

“Brie said the fever would last a few days.”

When he moved to sit beside me on the bed, I clambered to my feet, abandoning my blanket. My muscles protested the sudden movement, and I winced, shivering. He sighed and stood as well. “I’m sorry. Please, sit. You need to rest.”

“No, I need to get this hair off my neck. It’s driving me mad.” Inexplicably furious, I yanked the offending strands away from my sensitive skin. “But my arms, they’re so . . . heavy . . .” A yawn eclipsed the rest of my words, and my arms drooped. I sank back onto the bed. “I can’t seem to hold them up.”

He chuckled. “Is there something I can do to help?”

“You can braid it.”

The chuckle died abruptly. “You want me to—to what?”

“Braid it. Please.” He stared at me. I stared back. “I can teach you. It’s easy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Please. I can’t sleep with it touching my skin.”

It was true. Between the scripture, the fever, and the lack of sleep, my mind whirled deliriously. Every brush of hair against my skin was agony—somewhere between cold and pain, tingle and ache.

He swallowed hard and stepped around me. A welcome shiver swept down my back at his presence, his proximity. His heat. He expelled a resigned breath. “Tell me what to do.”

I resisted the urge to lean into him. “Divide it into three sections.”

He hesitated before gently wrapping his hands around my hair. Fresh gooseflesh rose on my arms as he threaded his fingers through the strands. “Now what?”

“Now take an outside section and cross it over the middle section.”

“What?”

“Must I repeat everything?”

“This is impossible,” he muttered, trying and failing to keep the strands separated. He gave up after a few seconds and started over. “Your hair is thicker than a horse’s tail.”

“Hmm.” I yawned again. “Is that a compliment, Chass?”

After several more attempts, he successfully managed the first step. “What’s next?”

“Now do the other side. Cross it over into the middle. Make sure it’s tight.”

He growled low in his throat, and a different sort of chill swept through me. “This looks terrible.”

I let my head fall forward, relishing the feel of his fingers on my neck. My skin didn’t protest as it had earlier. Instead, it seemed to warm under his touch. To melt. My eyes fluttered closed. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“How did you become captain?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“A few months after I joined the Chasseurs, I found a pack of loup garou outside the city. We killed them.”

Though no witch could ever claim friendliness with a werewolf, my heart contracted painfully at his pragmatism. His tone held no remorse, no emotion whatsoever—a simple statement of fact. As cold, barren, and improbable as a frozen seascape. Jean Luc would’ve called it truth.

Unable to muster the energy to continue the conversation, I sighed heavily, and we lapsed into silence. He braided steadily down my back, his movements quickening as he gained confidence. His fingers were nimble. Skilled. He seemed to sense the tension in my shoulders, however, because his voice was much softer when he asked, “How do I finish it?”

“There’s a leather cord on the nightstand.”

He wrapped the cord around the braid several times before tying it into a neat knot. At least, I assumed it was neat. Every aspect of Reid was precise, certain, every color in its proper place. Undiluted by indecision, he saw the world in black and white, suffering none of the messy, charcoal colors in between. The colors of ash and smoke. Of fear and doubt.

The colors of me.

“Lou, I . . .” He ran his fingers down my braid, and fresh chills washed over my skin. When I finally turned to look at him, he dropped his hand and stepped back, refusing to meet my eyes. “You asked.”

“I know.”

Without another word, he strode into the washroom and closed the door.

A Time for Moving on

Reid

“Let’s go somewhere,” Lou announced.

I looked up from my Bible. She’d visited the infirmary again this morning. Since returning from the foul place, she’d done nothing but sit on the bed and stare at empty air. But her eyes hadn’t been idle. No, they flicked back and forth as if watching something, her lips moving imperceptibly. Her fingers twitching.

Though I didn’t say anything, I feared the patients were beginning to rub off on her. One patient in particular, a Monsieur Bernard, worried me. A few days ago, Father Orville had pulled me aside to inform me the man was kept under constant sedation—and chained—to prevent suicide. Father Orville seemed to think Lou would suffer a shock when the inevitable happened.

Perhaps time away would do us both good.

I set aside my Bible. “Where do you want to go?”

“I want a sticky bun. Do you remember the patisserie where we first met? The one in East End? I used to go there all the time before, well . . . all of this.” She waved a hand between us.

I eyed her warily. “Do you promise to behave yourself?”

“Of course not. That would ruin the fun.” She hopped down from the bed. Fetched her cloak from the rack. “Are you coming or not?”

A sparkle lit her eyes that I hadn’t seen since the theater. Before the burning. Before, well . . . all of this. I eyed her carefully, searching for any sign of the woman I’d known the past week. Though her fever had abated quickly, her spirits hadn’t. It’d been like she was balancing on the tip of a knife—one wrong move, and she’d impale someone. Likely me.

Or herself.

But today she seemed different. Perhaps she’d turned a corner. “Are you . . . feeling better?” I asked, hesitant.

She stilled in tying her cloak. “Maybe.”

Against my better judgment, I nodded and reached for my own coat—only to have her snatch it out of reach.

“No.” She wagged a finger in front of my nose. “I’d like to spend the day with Reid, not the Chasseur.”

Reid.

I still hadn’t grown used to her saying my name. Every time she did, an absurd little thrill shot through me. This time was no different. I cleared my throat and crossed my arms, trying and failing to remain impassive. “They’re the same person.”