“I’m sor—” Ansel started, but Gabrielle shook her head, sending her auburn hair rippling around her shoulders in an agitated wave.

“Strangers always says that. They always say they’re sorry, like they’re the ones who killed him, but they didn’t kill him. The snow did, and then Nicholina ate his heart.” Finally—finally—she paused to draw breath, blinking once, twice, three times, as her eyes focused on Ansel at last. “Oh. Hello, Ansel Diggory. Are you related to my brother too?”

Ansel gaped at her. A laugh built in my throat at his gobsmacked expression, at her inquisitive one, and when it finally burst free—brilliant and clear and bright as the moon—Absalon darted into the bows for cover. Birds in their nests took flight. Even the trees seemed to rustle in agitation.

As for me, however, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.

Still chuckling, I knelt before her. Her brown eyes met mine with familiar intensity. “I cannot wait for your brother to meet you, Gabrielle.”

She beamed. “You can call me Gaby.”

When Nicholina and Ismay returned a moment later—Nicholina trilling about naughty trees—Gaby scoffed and whispered, “I told you she’s weird. Too many hearts.”

Ansel swallowed hard, casting a dubious look at Nicholina’s back as she drifted farther and farther ahead, leaving the rest of us behind. Ismay walked much closer than before. Her rigid spine radiated disapproval.

“You really think she—eats hearts?” he asked.

“Why would she do that?” I asked. “And how would they keep her young?”

“Your magic lives outside your body, right?” Gaby asked. “You get it from your ancestors’ ashes in the land?” She plowed ahead with her explanation before I could answer. “Our magic is different. It lives within us—right inside our hearts. The heart is the physical and emotional center of a blood witch, after all. Everyone knows that.”

Ansel nodded, but he didn’t seem to know at all. “Because your magic is only accessible through blood?”

“Gabrielle,” Ismay said sharply, lurching to a stop. She didn’t turn. “Enough. Speak no more of this.”

Gaby ignored her. “Technically, our magic is in every part of us—our bones, our sweat, our tears—but blood is the easiest way.”

“Why?” Ansel asked. “Why blood over the others?”

In a burst of clarity, I remembered the tour he’d given me of Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine. He’d known every detail of that unholy place. And what’s more—he’d spent much of our time in the Tower poring over leather-bound books and illuminated manuscripts from the library.

If Gaby’s curious nature served, he’d found himself a like-minded friend.

“I said enough, Gabrielle.” Ismay finally turned, planting her fists on her hips to block our path. She took care not to look at me. “No more. This conversation is inappropriate. If Josephine knew—”

Gaby narrowed her eyes and stepped around her, pulling us along with her. “How much do you know about Dames Blanches’ magic, Ansel Diggory?”

Ismay closed her eyes, lips moving as if praying for patience. Ansel gave her an apologetic smile as we passed. “Not much, I’m afraid. Not yet.”

“I figured.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Gaby harrumphed, but a smug smile played on her lips. “Dames Blanches’ and Dames Rouges’ magic might be different, but it’s also the same because each requires balance. When we spill our blood, we weaken our bodies, which limits us. We surrender little pieces of ourselves with each enchantment, and eventually, we die from it.” She said the last with relish, swinging our hands once more. “Well, if we don’t die from exposure first. Or starvation. Or huntsmen.”

Ansel frowned, casting me a confused look over her head. I watched as the implication sank in.

Coco.

When I nodded sadly, his face crumpled.

Ismay hurried after us. “Gabrielle, please, we cannot discuss such things with—”

“That is why blood is the most powerful way,” Gaby continued, determinedly ignoring her. “Because we must sacrifice with each cut, and that makes the enchantments stronger.”

“Gabrielle—”

“Blood is easily given.” The words left my mouth before I could catch them. When Gaby peered up at me, surprised, I hesitated. Though she was clearly intelligent, she was also still a child—perhaps only seven or eight years old. And yet . . . she’d also clearly known pain. I repeated the words Coco had told me years ago. “Tears—the pain that causes them—aren’t.”

They both gazed at me in silence.

“You—” Behind us, Ismay’s voice faltered. “You know our magic?”

“Not really.” I stopped walking with a sigh, and Ansel and Gabrielle followed suit. They watched with transparent curiosity as I turned to face Ismay. “But I’ve known Coco for most of my life. When I met her, she was—well, she was trying not to cry.” The memory of her six-year-old face flared in my mind’s eye: the quivering chin, the determined expression, the crumpled sea lily. She’d clutched it with both hands as she’d recounted the argument with her aunt. “But we were six, and the tears fell anyway. When they touched the ground, they sort of multiplied until we were standing in a pond, ankle-deep in mud.”

Ansel stared at me with wide eyes.

At long last, Ismay’s hostility seemed to fracture. She sighed and extended a hand to Gabrielle, who took it without complaint. “Long ago, we did experiment with tear magic, but it proved too volatile. The tears often overpowered the additives and transformed them into something else entirely. A simple sleeping solution could send the drinker into a peaceful slumber or . . . a more permanent one. We concluded it depended on the emotions of the witch when she shed the tears in question.”

As fascinating as her conjecture would’ve been, an inexplicable tugging sensation had started in my chest, distracting me. I glanced around. Nothing seemed amiss. Though we still hadn’t found Etienne, there’d been no signs of foul play—no signs of life anywhere, in fact. Except—

A crow alighted on a branch in front of us. It tilted its head, curious, and stared directly at me.

Unease crept down my spine.

“What is it?” Ansel asked, following my gaze. The crow cawed in response, and the sound echoed loudly around us, reverberating through the trees. Through my bones. Frowning, Ismay drew Gabrielle closer. Nicholina had disappeared.

“It’s—” I rubbed my chest as the tugging sensation grew stronger. It seemed to be pulling me . . . inward. I dug in my feet, bewildered, and glanced at the sky. Gray light filtered toward us from the east. My heart sank.

Our time was almost up.

In one last effort, I called the patterns back to sight. They remained as chaotic as ever. In a spectacular show of temper—or perhaps desperation—I waded through them, determined to find something, anything, that could help locate him before the sun truly rose. Vaguely, I heard Ansel’s concerned voice in the background, but I ignored it. The pressure in my chest built to breaking point. With each pattern I touched, I gasped, startled by an innate sense of wrongness. It felt . . . it felt as if these weren’t my patterns at all. But that was ludicrous, impossible—