“Migh’ wan’ a take it easy, Roy,” one of his companions said. “Early morn tomorrow, and all.”

Behind the disheveled group, three men in dark clothing played cards. Swords at their hips. Mead in their cups. Beyond them, a young couple chatted animatedly with Madame Labelle, Coco, and Beau. Fifi and a powerfully built barkeep tended the counter. Actors and actresses danced by the door. More villagers spilled in from outside, eyes bright with excitement and noses red with cold.

People everywhere, blissfully unaware of who hid in their midst.

“Bah.” Roy spat on the floor. A bit of the spittle dripped down his chin. Lou—seated closest to him—scooted her chair away, nose wrinkling. “Horse broke ’er leg yesterday eve. We won’ be goin’ ta Cesarine after all.”

At this, the three of us grew still. Unnaturally still. When I nudged Lou, she nodded and took a sip of her drink. Ansel followed suit, grimacing when the liquid hit his tongue. He tipped it toward me. I declined, quickly tallying the distance from Saint-Loire to Cesarine. If these men planned on leaving in the morning, the Archbishop’s funeral was in a fortnight.

“Lucky, you are,” another said as Fifi returned with their mead. They drank greedily. “Wife won’ let me outta it. Says we have ta pay our respects. Bleedin’ ’alfwit, she is. Old Florin never did me nothin’ but peeve the wee ones durin’ harvest.”

The sound of his name hit me like a brick. These were farmers, then. Several weeks ago, we’d been dispatched to deal with another lutin infestation outside Cesarine. But we’d been helping the farmers, not hindering them.

As if reading my mind, one said, “His blue pigs did kill ’em, though, Gilles. That’s somethin’.”

Blue pigs. Fury coiled in my throat at the slur. These men didn’t realize all the Chasseurs did to ensure their safety. The sacrifices they made. The integrity they held. I eyed the men’s rumpled clothing in distaste. Perhaps they lived too far north to understand, or perhaps their farms sat too far removed from polite society. None but simpletons and criminals referred to my brotherhood—I winced internally, correcting myself—the Chasseurs’ brotherhood as anything but virtuous, noble, and true.

“Not all o’ them,” Gilles replied gruffly. “We had a righ’ proper riot after they lef’. The little devils dug up their friends’ corpses and shredded my wheat in one nigh’. We leave out a weekly offerin’ now. The blues would burn us if they knew, but wha’ can we do? Cheaper than losin’ another field to the creatures. We’re caught between the rock and the hard place. Can hardly put food in our bellies as it is.”

He turned to order another round from Fifi.

“Aye,” his friend said, shaking his head. “Damned if we do, and damned if we don’.” He returned his attention to Roy. “Migh’ be for the best, though. My sister lives in Cesarine with ’er whelps, an’ she said Auguste ’as set a curfew. People ain’t allowed out after sundown, an’ women ain’t allowed out at all without gentlemanly chaperones. He’s got his soldiers patrollin’ the streets day an’ nigh’ lookin’ for suspicious womenfolk after wha’ happened to the Archbishop.”

Chaperones? Patrols?

Lou and I exchanged looks, and she cursed softly. It’d be harder to navigate the city than we suspected.

Gilles shuddered. “Can’t say I rightly mind it. Wee folk are one thing. Witches are another. Evil, they is. Unnatural.”

The other men mumbled their agreement while Roy ordered another round. When one of them diverted the conversation to his hernia, however, Lou shot me a quick glance. I didn’t like the gleam in her eye. Didn’t like the determined set in her jaw. “Don’t,” I warned, voice low, but she took a hearty swig and spoke over me.

“Oi, you ’ear what that lummox Toussaint was claimin’?”

Every eye at the neighboring table swiveled toward her. Disbelief kept me rooted to my chair, gaping along with the rest of them. Ansel let out a nervous chuckle. More squeak than anything. Lou kicked him under the table.

After another tense second, Roy belched and patted his stomach. “Who’re you, then? Why’re you hidin’ yer face?”

“Bad ’air day, boy-o. Sheared the whole o’ it off in a fit o’ rage, and now I can’ stand the sight of meself.”

Ansel choked on his whiskey. Instinctively, I pounded him on the back. Neither of us tore our eyes from Lou. I couldn’t see her grin, but I could sense it. She was enjoying herself.

I wanted to strangle her.

“Plus, there’s the wart on me chin,” she added conspiratorially, lifting a finger to tap her face. It disappeared within the shadows of her hood. “No amount o’ powder can cover it up. It’s the size o’ Belterra, it is.”

“Aye.” The man who’d spoken before nodded sagely, deep in his cups, and peered at her through bleary eyes. “Me sister ’as a wart on ’er nose. I reckon yer all right.”

Lou couldn’t contain her snort. “These are me brothers”—she gestured to Ansel and me—“Antoine and Raoul.”

“’Ello, friends.” Grinning, Ansel raised his hand in a stupid little wave. “Pleased ter meet yeh.”

I stared at him. Though sheepish, his smile didn’t falter.

“Anyhoo,” Lou said, tossing back the rest of her whiskey, “Antoine and Raoul ’ere can right empathize wit’ yer lutin problems. Farmers, we are. Them blue pigs is ruinin’ life fer us as well, and Toussaint is the worst o’ them.”

With a grunt, Roy shook his head. “He was just ’ere with ’is damn pigs this morn, and they said old Toussaint gutted Morgane on Christmas Eve.”

“Shit o’ the bull!” Lou slapped the table for emphasis. I pressed my foot over hers in warning, but she kicked my shin in response. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“But—” Roy belched again before leaning in, gesturing for us to do the same. “—they said they ’ad ta leave for Cesarine right away because o’ the tournament.”

My stomach dropped. “The tournament?”

“That’s right,” Roy said, cheeks growing ruddier by the second. Voice growing louder. “They have ta refill their ranks. Apparently the witches took ou’ a few of their own. People are callin’ it Nöel Rouge.” He leered and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Because o’ all the blood.”

When Ansel passed me his drink this time, I accepted.

The whiskey burned all the way down.

The one with the warty sister nodded. “They’re havin’ it before the Archbishop’s services. Tryin’ to make a festival outta it, I think. Bit morbid.”

Gilles downed his third pint. “Maybe I should enter.”

The man laughed. “Maybe I should enter yer wife while yer gone.”

“I’ll swap ’er for yer sister!”

The conversation deteriorated from there. I tried and failed to extricate Lou from an argument about who was uglier—the man’s sister or the witch in the wanted posters—when an unfamiliar voice interrupted. “Claptrap and balderdash, all of it. There is nothing so venerable as a wart on the visage.”