Lou

I woke the next morning with my face buried against Reid’s chest. His arms draped across my ribs, and his hands rested on my lower back. I arched into him sleepily, savoring the sensation of his skin against my own—then froze. My nightgown had pooled around my waist in the night, and my legs and belly were bare against him.

Shit, shit, shit.

I scrambled to pull down my nightgown, but he jerked awake at the movement. Instantly alert, he swept his eyes from my panicked expression to the empty room. The corner of his lips quirked, and a blush crept up his throat. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” I shoved away from him, my own cheeks treacherously warm. He grinned wider and grabbed his shirt from the floor before heading to the washroom. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“To train.”

“But—but it’s Saint Nicolas Day. We have to celebrate.”

He poked his head back out with a bemused expression. “Oh?”

“Oh,” I affirmed, sliding out of bed to join him. He stepped aside as I passed, though his hand snaked out to catch a strand of my hair. “We’re going to the festival.”

“We are?”

“Yes. The food is amazing. There are these ginger macarons—” I broke off, mouth already watering, and shook my head. “I can’t describe them properly. They must be experienced. Plus I need to buy you a present.”

He dropped my hair reluctantly and moved to the cabinet. “You don’t need to buy me anything, Lou.”

“Nonsense. I love buying presents almost as much as I love receiving them.”

An hour later, we strolled arm in arm through East End.

Though I’d attended the festival last year, I hadn’t been interested in decorating the evergreen trees with fruit and candy, or adding a log to the bonfire in the village center. No, I’d been much more invested in the dice games and stalls of cheap trinkets—and the food, of course.

The spice of cinnamon treats wafted through the air now, mingling with the ever-present stench of fish and smoke. I eyed the cart of cookies closest to us longingly. Sables, madeleines, and palmiers stared back at me. When I reached out to lift one—or three—Reid rolled his eyes and tugged me onward. My stomach gave an indignant growl.

“How can you still be hungry?” he asked, incredulous. “You ate three helpings at breakfast this morning.”

I made a face. “That was tuna. I have a second stomach for dessert.”

The streets bustled with revelers bundled in coats and scarves, and a light coating of snow dusted everything—the shops, the stalls, the carriages, the street. Wreaths with red bows hung from nearly every door. The wind caught at the ribbons and made the tails dance.

For Cesarine, it was beautiful.

The gauche flyers tacked to every building, however, were not:

YE OLDE SISTERS

TRAVELING COMPANY

invites you to honor our patriarch

HIS EMINENCE, FLORIN CARDINAL CLéMENT,

ARCHBISHOP OF BELTERRA

by attending the performance of the century tomorrow morning,

the seventh day of December

at Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine.

Joyeux No?l!

I thrust a flyer under Reid’s nose, laughing. “Florin? What a terrible name! No wonder he never uses it.”

He frowned at me. “Florin is my middle name.”

I crumpled it up and tossed it in a bin. “A true tragedy.” When he tried to lead me away, I slipped my arm from his, raising the hood of my cloak. “All right, time to split up.”

Still frowning, he scanned the crowded square. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can trust me. I won’t run away. Besides, presents are supposed to be a surprise.”

“Lou—”

“We’ll meet up at Pan’s in an hour. Do get me something good.”

Ignoring his protests, I turned and wove through the shoppers toward the smithy at the end of the street. The blacksmith there, Abe, had always been friendly with East End’s underbelly. I’d purchased many knives from him—and stolen one or two more. Before Tremblay’s, Abe had shown me a beautiful copper-handled dagger. It matched Reid’s hair perfectly. I hoped he hadn’t sold it.

Pushing back my hood and mustering up a touch of my old swagger, I strode into the smithy. Embers smoldered in the forge, but beyond a barrel of water and bag of sand, there was nothing else in the earthen room. No swords. No knives. No customers. I frowned. The blacksmith was nowhere to be seen. “Abe? Are you here?”

A thickset, bearded man stepped through the side entrance, and I grinned. “There you are, old man! I thought you’d gone negligent for a moment.” My smile faltered at his furious scowl, and I glanced around. “Business booming?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here, Lou.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Rumor has it you sold out Andre and Grue. East End is crawling with constables thanks to you.” He took a step forward, fists clenched. “They’ve been here twice, asking questions they shouldn’t have known to ask. My customers are leery. No one wants to do business with the constabulary sniffing around.”

Yikes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told the Chasseurs everything, after all.

I withdrew a pouch from my cloak with a flourish. “Ah, but I’ve brought an olive branch. See?” I shook the bag, and the coins inside clinked together in a jaunty tune. His dark eyes remained suspicious.

“How much?”

I tossed the pouch in the air with deliberate nonchalance. “Enough to purchase a beautiful copper dagger. A present for my husband.”

He spat on the floor in disgust. “Marrying a blue pig. I didn’t think even you could stoop that low.”

Anger pricked in my chest, but this wasn’t the time or the place to pick a fight over my husband’s honor. “I did what I had to. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I do understand.”

“Oh?”

“We all do what we have to.” He eyed the pouch in my hand with a hungry expression. “I remember the copper dagger. I’d rather saw off my fingers than see it with a huntsman, but gold is gold. Stay here. I’ll go and fetch it.”

I shifted uneasily in the silence that followed, running my fingers over the money pouch.

Marrying a blue pig. I didn’t think even you could stoop that low.

I wanted to tell Abe he could piss off, but a part of me remembered what it felt like to hate the Chasseurs. To hate Reid. I remembered fleeing to the shadows when they passed, ducking every time I caught a glimpse of blue.

The fear was still there, but to my surprise . . . the hatred had gone.

I nearly jumped out of my skin at a small noise against the door. Probably a mouse. Mentally shaking myself, I straightened my shoulders. I didn’t hate the Chasseurs any longer, but they had made me complacent. And that was inexcusable.

Standing in my old haunt and jumping at nothing, I realized just how far my edge had slipped. And where the hell was Abe?

Inexplicably furious—at Abe, at Reid, at the Archbishop and every other godforsaken man who’d ever stood in my way—I whirled and stomped toward the side door Abe had disappeared through.

Fifteen minutes was long enough. Abe could take my couronnes and shove them up his ass for all I cared. I made to wrench the door open, determined to tell him just that, but stopped short when my hand touched the knob. My stomach sank.

The door was locked.

Shit.

I took a deep breath. Then another. Perhaps Abe hadn’t wanted me to follow him into his inner chambers. Perhaps he’d locked the door to prevent me from sneaking in and pocketing something valuable. I’d done it before. Perhaps he was just being cautious.

Still, a shiver swept down my spine as I turned to try the main door. Though I couldn’t see through the soot and grime of the window, I knew few revelers ventured this far down the street. I twisted the knob.

Locked.

Backing away, I tried to assess my options. The window. I could break it, climb out before—

The side door clicked open, and for a single, glorious second, I fooled myself into believing it was Abe’s hulking form in the door.

“Hello, Lou Lou.” Grue stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “You’re a tricky little bitch to catch.”

Panic spiked through me as Andre appeared behind him, pulling a knife from his cloak. Abe’s dark eyes appeared over their shoulders. “You were right, Lou.” His lip curled. “We all do what we have to.” Then he turned and disappeared into the neighboring room, slamming the door behind him.

“Hello again, Grue. Andre, your eye healed nicely.” Forcing nonchalance despite my rising hysteria, I searched my peripheral vision for something I could use as a weapon: the barrel of water, the bag of sand, the rusted tongs by the forge. Or—or I could—