That explained a lot.

“For the remainder of our journey,” he prattled, unfurling his tape, “might I suggest you bunk with the twins in the amber wagon? Your mother may join you. Your brother, however, may better suit the scarlet wagon with Zenna and Seraphine. Though I sleep little, I will accompany him there.” He chortled at an unspoken joke. “I’ve been told Zenna and Seraphine are the fiercest of snorers.”

“I would be better suited to Zenna and Seraphine’s wagon.” I could hear the smirk in Beau’s voice. “How perceptive you are, Claud.”

He barked a laugh. “Oh no, dear boy, I fear if romance is what you seek, you shall be markedly disappointed. Zenna’s and Seraphine’s very souls are intertwined. Cosmic, I tell you.”

Beau’s expression flattened, and he looked away, muttering about piss poor luck.

“Why the sleeping arrangements?” I asked suspiciously. After bidding Lou goodbye, I’d spent the remainder of the night riding up front with Claud. He’d tried to pass the time with conversation. When I hadn’t kept up my end, he’d started to sing, and I’d regretted my grave error. For hours.

“You’re quite contrary, aren’t you, Monsieur Diggory? Quite prickly.” He peered up at me with a curious expression before dropping to measure my inseam. “’Tis nothing nefarious, I assure you. I simply think it wise for you to consider pursuing a friendship with our dear Toulouse and Thierry.”

“Again, why?”

“You might have more in common with them than you think.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Beau. He frowned at Deveraux. “That’s not cryptic at all.”

Deveraux sighed and stood once more, patting the mud from his corduroy trousers. Violet corduroy trousers. “If I might be frank, messieurs.” He turned to me. “You have recently suffered a rather traumatic event and are in desperate need of platonic companionship. Your forefather is gone. Your brotherhood has abandoned you. Your self-loathing has cleaved a physical and emotional cleft between you and your wife. More important, it has cleaved a cleft within yourself.”

Sharp, hot anger spiked through me at the unexpected reprimand. “You don’t even know me.”

“Perhaps not. But I do know you don’t know yourself. I know you cannot know another until you do.” He snapped his fingers in front of my nose. “I know you need to wake up, young man, lest you leave this world without finding that which you truly seek.”

I glared at him, the beginning of shame flushing my neck. My ears. “And what’s that?”

“Connection,” he said simply, spinning his tape into a tidy roll. “We all seek it. Accept yourself, accept others, and you just might find it. Now”—he turned on his booted heel, smiling cheerily over his shoulder—“I suggest you partake in your midday meal. We soon continue to Domaine-les-Roses, where you shall woo the crowd with your knife-wielding prowess. Ta-ta!”

He strode off whistling a merry tune.

Beau snorted in the ensuing silence. “I like him.”

“He’s mad.”

“All the best ones are.”

His words sparked others—sharper ones now. Words that bit and snapped within my mind, seeking blood. Claud is a collector of sorts, Zenna had said. He adds only the best and brightest talent to his troupe. The rare and unusual. The exceptional.

My suspicion deepened. His curious look, his meaningful smile . . . was it possible he knew my secret? Did he know what I’d done on Modraniht? It wasn’t likely. And yet—Morgane knew. I wasn’t fool enough to believe she’d keep that knowledge to herself. When it best suited her purposes, she’d reveal it, and I would burn. And perhaps I deserved to burn. I’d taken life. I’d played God—

No. I retreated from my spiraling thoughts, breathing deeply. Marshaling my mind into order. Into silence. It lasted only seconds before another unwelcome question crept in.

If Deveraux did know, did that mean—were the twins also witches?

You might have more in common with them than you think.

Scoffing, I unsheathed another knife. In all my years around magic, in all Lou’s years around it, we’d never heard of another male witch. To stumble upon two others this quickly after Modraniht was the least likely possibility of all. No. Less than unlikely. Absurd.

Claud is a collector of sorts.

Closing my eyes, I focused on emptying my mind of thought. Such speculation did little good. I had one purpose now—to protect Lou, to protect my unknown brothers and sisters. I couldn’t know them if they were dead. I breathed in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Retreated to my fortress. Relished the darkness of my lids.

It didn’t matter if the twins were witches.

It didn’t matter if Deveraux knew I was one.

Because I wasn’t a witch if I didn’t practice.

I wasn’t a witch.

Heedless of my conviction, gold flickered to life in the darkness, and there—soft at first, so soft I nearly missed them—voices began to hum.

Seek us, seek us, seek us.

My eyes snapped open.

When Beau cleared his throat behind me, I jumped, nearly dropping my knife. “You aren’t seriously planning on strapping your mother to that board, are you?” he asked. “You could decapitate her.”

In response, I hurled the knife—end over end—toward the center of the board. It sank deep beside the first one.

“Now you’re just posturing.” He rose from his blanket, stepped to my side for a better view. To my surprise, he tugged another knife from my bandolier, studying it in his hand. Then he threw it.

It thudded against the board like a dead fish before falling to the ground.

A beat of silence passed.

“It would seem”—Beau straightened his coat with as much dignity as he could muster—“I’m shit at this.”

I snorted despite myself. The knot in my chest loosened. “Was there ever any doubt?”

A self-deprecating grin broke over his face, and he pushed my shoulder halfheartedly. Though tall, he stood a couple of inches shorter than me.

“When’s your birthday?” I blurted.

He arched a black brow. So different from my own. “The ninth of August. I’m twenty-one years old. Why?”

“No reason.”

“I’m older than you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t, and you’re not.”

“Come now, little brother, I told you my birthdate. It’s only fair you reciprocate.” When I didn’t answer, his grin spread. “Your silence is damning. You really are younger, aren’t you?”

Pushing his hand from my shoulder, I stalked toward the amber wagon. My neck burned.

Cots lined the walls inside, built above and below storage shelves like pieces of a puzzle. Pillows overflowed. Though threadbare, silk and velvet and satin covered each of them. Trunks had been shoved in the corners, along with a battered rack of costumes and a half-dressed mannequin. My chest twisted.

It reminded me of Soleil et Lune’s attic.

Except for the incense. Frankincense and myrrh burned within a small porcelain pot. The smoke funneled out through a hole in the roof.

I hurled the entire pot outside into the snow.