La Voisin studied us for a moment that felt like eternity. At long last, she pulled her hand from Coco’s grasp. “If you find Etienne,” she said, lips pursing, “I will consider your proposition.” At Ansel’s and my sighs of relief, she added sharply, “You have until sunrise. If you have not found him by then, you will leave this camp without argument. Agreed?”

Indignant, I opened my mouth to argue such a ridiculous timeframe—less than a handful of hours—but something brushed my ankle. I glanced down in surprise. “Absalon? What are you . . . ?” Hardly daring to hope, I whirled toward the tent entrance, but there was no towering, copper-haired man standing there, no half smiles or clenched jaws or flushed cheeks. I frowned.

He wasn’t here.

Disappointment bit deep. Then confusion. Matagots generally stayed with those who’d attracted them. Unless . . .

“Do you have a message for me?” I asked, frown deepening. A tendril of panic bloomed. Had something already gone wrong on the road? Had he been recognized, captured, discovered as a witch? A million possibilities sparked in my mind, spreading like wildfire. “What is it, Absalon? Tell me.”

He merely meowed and wove between my ankles, human intelligence gleaming in his feline eyes. As I stared at him, bewildered, the last of my anger sizzled away. He hadn’t stayed with Reid. He hadn’t come to deliver a message. Instead, he’d simply . . . come. Here. He’d come here. And that meant—

“You named the matagot?” La Voisin blinked once, the only outward sign of her surprise.

“Everyone deserves a name,” I said faintly. They’re drawn to like creatures. Troubled souls. Someone here must have attracted him. Absalon stood on his hind paws, kneading the thick leather of my pants with his front. Instinctively, I knelt to scratch behind his ear. A low purr built in his throat. “He didn’t tell me his, so I improvised.”

Coco’s brows knitted together as she glanced between me and Ansel—clearly trying to decide who the matagot had followed here—but La Voisin only smiled, small and suggestive. “You are not what I expected, Louise le Blanc.”

I didn’t like that smile. Straightening hastily, I nudged Absalon away with my foot. He didn’t move. “Shoo,” I hissed, but he merely gazed balefully back at me. Shit.

The auburn-haired woman from before interrupted us, peeking inside the tent. She held the hand of a child, a miniature version of herself. “The midnight search party has returned, my lady.” Sniffing, she wiped away a fresh tear. “No sign of him. The next party has assembled.”

“Do not fear, Ismay. We will find him.” La Voisin clasped her hands, and her voice softened. “You must rest. Take Gabrielle back to your tent. We will wake you with developments.”

“No, I—I must rejoin the party. Please do not ask me to sit idly while—while my son—” She broke off, overcome, before gritting her teeth. “I will not rest until he is found.”

La Voisin sighed. “Very well.” When Ismay nodded in thanks, guiding her daughter out of the tent, La Voisin inclined her head to me. “If you agree to my terms, you will join the next party in their search. They leave immediately. Nicholina will accompany you, as will Ismay and Gabrielle. You may also take your familiar and companion.” She paused. “Cosette, you will attend me.”

“Tante—” Coco started.

“He’s not my familiar—” I snapped.

But La Voisin spoke over us, her eyes flashing. “You try my patience, child. If I am to consider this alliance, you will find Etienne before the first light of day. Do we have a deal?”

..................................................................

One Step Forward

Reid

The weight of the knife was heavy in my palm. Solid. The blade balanced and sharp. I’d purchased it from one of the finest smiths in Cesarine—a smith who had later consorted to kill my wife with a couple of criminals. Blue pig, he’d spat after I’d given him to the authorities. In all our years of business, I hadn’t known he despised me. Just like the farmers in Saint-Loire. All because of my uniform.

No. That wasn’t true.

All because of me. My beliefs.

Golden stars took up most of the spinning board. Leather cuffs hung from four strategic points on the circular wood—two for an assistant’s hands, and two for their feet. The top of the board had been stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood.

With a halfhearted flick of my wrist, I threw my knife. It lodged dead center.

Deveraux erupted into applause. “Well, that was quite—quite extraordinary, Monsieur Diggory! Really, Louise wasn’t fibbing when she spoke of your bladed prowess!” He fanned himself for a moment. “Ah, the crowd will positively exalt your performance. The Dagger of Danger, we shall call you. No, no—Knife Strife.”

I stared at him, alarmed. “I don’t think—”

“Argh, you’re right, you’re right, of course. We have not yet found the perfect appellation. Never fear! Together, we shall—” His hands shot skyward abruptly, fingers splayed as if framing a portrait. “Three-Fingered Red? It takes three fingers to perform, yes?”

“Any more, and it would just be uncomfortable.” Lounging behind us on a spangled blanket, Beau laughed. The remains of his lunch littered the ground beside him. “Might I suggest Le Petit Jésus as an alternative?”

“Stop.” I took a deep breath through my nose. Heat worked up my throat, and even to me, the word sounded tired. I’d thought to use the break in travel to practice. An egregious lapse in judgment. “I don’t need a stage name.”

“My dear, dear boy!” Deveraux clutched his chest as if I’d insulted his mother. “Whatever else shall we call you? We cannot simply announce you as Reid Diggory.” He flapped a hand, swatting away my protests. “The couronnes, dear boy, just think of the couronnes! You need a name, an identity, to whisk the audience into their fantas—” His hand stilled mid-swipe, and his eyes lit with excitement. “The Red Death,” he said with relish. My heartbeat faltered. “That’s it. The clear winner. The obvious selection. Come one, come all, to witness the horrible, the hellacious, the handsome Red Death!”

Beau doubled over with laughter. I nearly threw another knife at him.

“I prefer Raoul.”

“Nonsense. I have clearly articulated my feelings on the name Raoul.” Deveraux dropped his hands. The feather on his hat bobbed in agitation. “Never fear, I have every confidence the honorific shall grow on you. But perhaps a respite is in order in the meantime? We might instead outfit you both for your grand debut!”

Beau rose hastily to his elbows. “I told you I won’t be onstage.”

“Everyone in the company must model the appropriate attire, Your Highness. Even those collecting tickets and tips from the audience. You understand, I’m sure.”

Beau fell backward with a groan.

“That’s the spirit!” From his sleeve, Deveraux pulled a measuring tape. “Now, I’ll just need a few measurements—a negligible amount, really—and all will be set. May I?” He gestured to my arm. When I nodded, he stepped into my space, engulfing me in the scent of wine.