“I can’t protect you if you won’t let me,” he pleaded. “Whatever it is, whatever has you so frightened, you can tell me. Is it your mother? Is she looking for you?”

I couldn’t stop fresh tears from spilling down my cheeks. A greater fear than any I’d ever known gripped me as I stared at him. I had to tell him the truth. Here. Now.

It was time.

If my mother knew where I was, Reid was in danger too. Morgane wouldn’t hesitate to kill a Chasseur, especially if he stood between her and her prize. He couldn’t be blindsided. He had to be prepared.

Slowly . . . I nodded.

His face darkened at the confession. He cupped my cheeks, brushing aside my tears with a tenderness at odds with the ferocity of his gaze. “I won’t let her hurt you again, Lou. I’ll protect you. Everything will be all right.”

I shook my head. The tears fell faster now. “I need to tell you something.” My throat constricted, as if my very body rebelled against what I was about to do. As if it knew the fate that awaited it if the words escaped. I swallowed hard, forcing them out before I could change my mind. “The truth is—”

The door burst open, and to my shock, the Archbishop strode in.

Reid rose and bowed at once, his face registering the same surprise—and wariness. “Sir?”

The Archbishop’s eyes cut between us, fierce and determined. “We just received word from the royal guard, Reid. Dozens of women have collected outside the castle, and King Auguste is nervous. Make haste to disband them. Secure every Chasseur you can.”

Reid hesitated. “Has someone confirmed magic, sir?”

The Archbishop’s nostrils flared. “Would you suggest we wait to find out?”

Reid glanced back at me, torn, but I swallowed hard and nodded. The words I hadn’t spoken congealed at the back of my throat, choking me. “Go.”

He bent to give my hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’ll send Ansel to you until I get back—”

“No need,” the Archbishop said curtly. “I’ll stay with her myself.”

We turned as one to gape at him. “You—you, sir?”

“I have an urgent matter to discuss with her.”

Reid’s hand lingered on my trembling knee. “Sir, if I might ask—could you postpone this conversation? She’s had a very difficult day, and she’s still recovering from—”

The Archbishop skewered him with a glare. “No, I cannot. And while you kneel there arguing with me, people could be dying. Your king could be dying.”

Reid’s expression hardened. “Yes, sir.” Jaw taut, he released my hand and brushed a kiss against my forehead. “We will talk later. I promise.”

With a sense of foreboding, I watched him walk toward the door. He paused at the threshold and turned back to me. “I love you, Lou.”

Then he was gone.

Ye Olde Sisters

Lou

I stared into the corridor for a full moment before his words sank in.

I love you, Lou.

Warmth spread from the tips of my fingers to my toes, chasing away the numbing fear that plagued me. He loved me. He loved me.

This changed everything. If he loved me, it wouldn’t matter that I was a witch. He would love me anyway. He would understand. He really would protect me.

If he loved me.

I’d almost forgotten the Archbishop until he spoke. “You have deceived him.”

I turned toward him in a daze. “You can leave.” The words came without the bite I’d intended. A few tears still leaked down my face, but I brushed them away impatiently. I wanted nothing more than to bask in the heady warmth overwhelming me. “You really don’t have to stay. The performance should be starting soon.”

He didn’t move, continuing as if he hadn’t heard me. “You are a very good actress. Of course, I should have expected it—but I shan’t shame myself by being fooled twice.”

My bubble of happiness punctured slightly. “What are you talking about?”

He ignored me once more. “It’s almost as if you truly care for him.” Striding toward the door, he pushed it shut with an ominous snap. I hastened to my feet, eyeing the desk drawer where I’d stored Andre’s knife. His lip curled. “But we both know that isn’t possible.”

I inched closer to the desk. Though Reid trusted his patriarch implicitly, I knew better. That furtive gleam still shone in his eyes, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be trapped on a bed.

As if reading my mind, he halted—shifted so he was directly in front of the desk drawer. My mouth went dry. “I do care for him. He’s my husband.”

“‘And the great dragon was thrown down, the serpent of old who is called the devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world.’” His eyes flashed. “You are that serpent, Louise. A viper. And I will not allow you to destroy Reid for another moment. I can no longer stand idly by—”

A knock sounded on the door. Brows knitting together angrily, he whirled in a storm of crimson and yellow. “Come in!”

A page boy poked his head inside. “Begging your pardon, Your Eminence, but everyone is waiting for you outside.”

“I am aware,” the Archbishop snapped, “and I will be along to witness the hedonism momentarily. I have business to attend to here first.”

Oblivious to the reprimand, the boy bounced on the balls of his feet in barely contained anticipation. His eyes gleamed with excitement. “But the performance is about to start, sir. They—they told me to come fetch you. The crowd is getting restless.”

An agitated muscle worked in the Archbishop’s jaw. When his steely eyes finally settled on me, I motioned pointedly toward the door, sending up a silent prayer of thanks. “You don’t want to keep them waiting.”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “You shall accompany me, of course.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“Nonsense.” He actually reached out and grabbed my arm, tucking it firmly beneath his. I flinched away from the contact instinctively, but it was no use. Within seconds, he’d dragged me out into the corridor. “I promised Reid I would stay with you, and stay with you I shall.”

The crowd milled around the wagons eating treats and clutching brown paper packages, noses red from a day of shopping in the cold. The Archbishop waved when he saw them—then stopped short when he noticed the eclectic band of performers on the cathedral steps.

He wasn’t the only one. Those not feasting on macarons and hazelnuts whispered behind their hands in disapproval. One word rose above the rest, a soft hiss repeated over and over in the wind.

Women.

The actors in this troupe were all women.

And not just any women: though they ranged in age from crones to maidens, all held themselves with the telltale grace of artists. Proud and erect, but also fluid. They watched the crowd murmur with impish smiles. Already performing before the show began. The youngest couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and she winked at a man twice her age. He nearly choked on his popcorn.

I don’t know what these idiots had expected. The troupe’s name was Ye Olde Sisters.

“Abominable.” The Archbishop halted at the top of the steps, lip curling. “A woman should never debase herself with such a disreputable profession.”

I smirked and withdrew my arm from his. He didn’t stop me. “I’ve heard they’re very talented.”

At my words, the youngest caught sight of us. Her eyes met mine, and she flashed a mischievous grin. With an imperious toss of her wheat-colored hair, she lifted her hands to the crowd. “Joyeux No?l à tous! Our guest of honor has arrived! Quiet, now, so we might begin our special performance!”

The crowd instantly quieted, and eyes everywhere turned to her in anticipation. She paused, arms still spread wide, to bask in their attention. For someone so young, she held an uncommon amount of confidence. Even the Archbishop stood transfixed. At her nod, the other actors darted into one of the wagons.

“We all know the story of Saint Nicolas, bringer of gifts and protector of children.” She spun in a slow circle, arms still wide. “We know the evil butcher, Père Fouettard, lured the foolish brothers into his meat shop and cut them into little pieces.” She sliced her hand through the air to mimic a knife. Those near her drew back with disapproving looks. “We know Saint Nicolas arrived and defeated Père Fouettard. We know he resurrected the children and returned them safe and whole to their parents.” She inclined her head. “We know this story. We cherish it. It is why we gather every year to celebrate Saint Nicolas.

“But today—today we bring you a different story.” She paused, another naughty smile touching her lips. “Lesser known and darker in nature, but still the tale of a holy man. We shall call him an archbishop.”

The Archbishop stiffened beside me as a woman strode out of the wagon wearing choral robes uncannily similar to his own. Even the shades of crimson and gold matched. She trained her face into a severe expression. Brows furrowed, mouth tight.