“No.” She stared at her hands, lips pursing. “I didn’t. I never told him what I was. I—I didn’t want to lose him.”

“Good Lord,” Beau said under his breath.

“And Morgane . . . did she find you together?” Coco asked.

“No,” Madame Labelle said softly. “But . . . I soon became pregnant, and I—I made the mistake of confiding in her. We were friends, once. Best friends. Closer than sisters. I thought she would understand.” She swallowed and closed her eyes. Her chin quivered. “I was a fool. She tore him from my arms when he was born—my beautiful baby boy. I never told Auguste.”

Beau’s face contorted with disgust. “You birthed a sibling of mine?”

Coco elbowed him sharply. “What happened to him?”

Madame Labelle’s eyes remained shut. As if she couldn’t bear to look at us—at me. “I never knew. Most male babies are placed within caring homes—or orphanages, if the child is unlucky—but I knew Morgane would never bestow such a kindness on my son. I knew she would punish him for what I’d done—for what Auguste had done.” She exhaled shakily. When her eyes fluttered open, she looked directly at me. “I searched for him for years, but he was lost to me.”

Lost. My face twisted. That was one way of putting it.

Another would be: stuffed in the garbage and left to die.

She winced at the loathing on my face. “Perhaps he will always be lost to me.”

“Yes.” Hatred burned through my very core. “He will.”

I shoved to my feet, ignoring the others’ curious looks. “We’ve wasted too much time here. Lou could already be halfway to Chateau le Blanc. You”—I pointed my dagger at Madame Labelle—“will take me there.”

“Us there,” Ansel said. “I’m coming too.”

Coco stood. “As am I.”

Beau grimaced as he too rose from his seat. “I suppose that means I’m coming as well. If Lou dies, I die, apparently.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “But we leave now. Lou is miles ahead of us already. We have to make up time, or she’ll be dead before we reach the Chateau.”

“She won’t be.” Madame Labelle stood also, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Squaring her shoulders. “Morgane will wait to perform the sacrifice. At least a fortnight.”

“Why?” Though I wanted nothing more than to never speak to this woman again, she was my only path to Lou. A necessary evil. “How do you know this?”

“I know Morgane. Her pride suffered terribly when Lou escaped the first time, so she will ensure as many witches as possible are present to witness her triumph. To the witches, Christmas Eve is Modraniht. Already, witches from all over the kingdom are traveling to the Chateau for the celebration.” She skewered me with a pointed look. “Modraniht is a night to honor their mothers. Morgane will delight in the irony.”

“How fortunate I don’t have one.” Ignoring her wounded expression, I turned on my heel and walked past the empty-eyed dancers and drunken men to the exit. “We reconvene here in an hour. Make sure you aren’t followed.”

The Soul Remembers

Lou

The wooden floor beneath me pitched abruptly, and I fell into someone’s lap. Soft arms enveloped me, along with the cool, crisp scent of eucalyptus. I froze. The smell had haunted my nightmares for the past two years.

My eyes burst open as I attempted to jerk away, but—to my horror—my body didn’t respond. Paralyzed, I had no choice but to stare into my mother’s vivid green eyes. She smiled and brushed a kiss against my forehead. My skin crawled.

“I’ve missed you, darling.”

“What have you done to me?”

She paused, laughing softly. “Extraordinary, those little injections. When Monsieur Bernard brought one to me, I perfected the medicine. I like to think my version is more humane. Only your body is affected, not your mind.” Her smile widened. “I thought you’d enjoy a little taste of your friends’ medicine. They worked so hard to create it for you.”

The floor lurched again, and I glanced around, finally registering my surroundings. The covered troupe wagon. No light filtered through the thick canvas, so I couldn’t discern how long we’d been traveling. I strained my ears, but the steady clip-clops of horse hooves were the only sounds. We’d left the city.

It didn’t matter. No help would be coming. Reid had made that much clear.

Grief swept through me in a debilitating wave as I remembered his parting words. Though I tried to hide it, a solitary tear still escaped down my cheek. Morgane’s finger wiped it away, bringing it to her mouth to taste it. “My beautiful, darling girl. I’ll never allow him to hurt you again. It would be fitting to watch him burn for what he’s done to you, yes? Perhaps I can arrange for you to light his pyre yourself. Would that make you happy?”

The blood drained from my face. “Don’t touch him.”

She arched a white brow. “You have forgotten he is your enemy, Louise. But fret not . . . all will be forgiven at Modraniht. We’ll arrange your husband’s burning before our little celebration.” She paused, giving me the chance to bite and snap at the mention of Reid. I refused. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“You remember the holiday, don’t you? I thought we would make it special this year.”

A tendril of fear crept through me. Yes, I remembered Modraniht.

Mothers’ Night. Dames Blanches from all over Belterra would gather at the Chateau to feast and honor their female ancestors with sacrifices. I had little doubt what my role would be this year.

As if reading my thoughts, she touched my throat affectionately. I gasped, remembering the burst of pain in my scar before I’d collapsed. She chuckled. “Do not worry yourself. I’ve healed your wound. I couldn’t waste any of that precious blood before we reached the Chateau.” Her hair tickled my face as she leaned closer, right next to my ear. “It was a clever bit of magic, and difficult to deconstruct, but even it won’t save you this time. We’re almost home.”

“That place is not my home.”

“You’ve always been so dramatic.” Still chuckling, she reached forward to flick my nose, and my heart stopped at the sight of the golden ring on her finger. She followed my gaze with a knowing smile. “Ah, yes. And naughty, too.”

“How did you—” Choking on the words, I struggled against the injection binding me, but my limbs remained cruelly unresponsive.

Morgane couldn’t have Angelica’s Ring. She couldn’t. I needed it to dispel her enchantment. If I wore it when she drained my blood, the blood would be useless. The magic would be broken. I would die, yes, but the Lyons would live. Those innocent children would live.

I struggled harder, the veins in my throat nearly bursting from the strain. But the more I fought, the more difficult it became to speak—to breathe—around the heaviness of my body. My limbs felt as if they would soon fall through the wagon floor. Panicked, I focused on bringing a pattern forth—any pattern—but the gold winked in and out of focus, blurred and disjointed from the drug.

I cursed bitterly, my resolve quickly crumbling into hopelessness.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own ring?” Morgane smiled tenderly and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “You must tell me, though, however did you find it? Or was it you who stole it in the first place?” When I didn’t answer, she sighed heavily. “How you disappoint me, darling. The running, the hiding, the ring—surely you realize it’s all folly.”

Her smile vanished as she lifted my chin, and her eyes burned into mine with sudden, predatory focus. “For every seed you’ve scattered, Louise, I’ve scattered a thousand more. You are my daughter. I know you better than you know yourself. You cannot outsmart me, you cannot escape me, and you cannot hope to triumph against me.”

She paused as if waiting for a reply, but I didn’t indulge her. With every ounce of my concentration, I focused on moving my hand, on shifting my wrist, on lifting even a finger. Darkness swam in my vision from the effort. She watched me struggle for several minutes—the intensity in her eyes dulling to a strange sort of wistfulness—before she resumed stroking my hair. “We must all die eventually, Louise. I urge you to make peace with it. On Modraniht, your life will fulfill its purpose at last, and your death will liberate our people. You should be proud. Not many receive such a glorious fate.”

With one last, desperate heave, I attempted to lash out at her—to strike her, to hurt her, to tear the ring from her finger somehow—but my body remained cold and lifeless.

Already dead.

My days passed in torment. Though the drug paralyzed my body, it did nothing to dull the ache in my bones. My face and wrist continued to throb from the witch’s attack, and a hard knot had formed at my throat from being stabbed by so many quills.

To think, Andre and Grue had once been the worst of my problems.