They both stared at her with such warm affection—such adoration—that my heart twisted. I did not envy her this choice. And Beau . . . he wasn’t even here to offer his handsome, sneering face as an alternative. Taking pity on her, I turned her shoulders to face me. “They’re right. You’re doing everything you can to help them now. When Morgane is dead—when I—afterward, your people will be welcome in the Chateau again. We just need to keep focus.”

Though she nodded swiftly, instinctively, her face remained grim. “I’m not sure she’ll join us, Lou. She—”

A scream overpowered the rest of her words, and Ismay bolted through the crowd, face wild. “Where is Gabrielle? Where is she?” She whirled, shrieking, “Gabrielle!” Though hands reached out to her—though La Voisin herself attempted to calm her with steady words and soothing touches—Ismay ignored them all, darting toward me with frantic eyes. She gripped my arms hard enough to bruise. “Have you seen my daughter?”

Panic closed my throat. “I—”

“Could she have followed the feu follet?” Placing a hand on Ismay’s, Coco tried and failed to pry me free. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Tears spilled down Ismay’s cheeks, peppering the snow with black flowers. Begonias. I’d learned their meaning from a naturalist tutor at the Chateau. “I—I don’t remember. She was with me during the procession, but I let go of her hand to finish Etienne’s pot.”

Beware.

They meant beware.

“Don’t panic,” another witch said. “This isn’t the first time Gabrielle has run off. It won’t be the last.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” another added. “Overwhelmed, perhaps. So much grief is hard on one so young.”

“We were all right here,” said a third, voicing what everyone else was thinking. “Surely none could have stolen her from the heart of our coven. We would have seen.”

“They’re right.” Coco finally succeeded in loosening Ismay’s grip, and blood rushed back into my arms. “We’ll find her, Ismay.” When she looked at me, however, her eyes said what her mouth did not: one way or another.

I only half listened as the blood witches spread out across the grove in search of her.

I knew in my bones what had happened here. Morgane must’ve rejoiced when she’d discovered not one but two of the king’s children hidden in this camp. Her timing, as always, had been unerring. She’d planned this.

Twenty-seven children, Madame Labelle had said. The king had sired twenty-seven children at her last count. Surely finding them would be like finding needles in a haystack. But Morgane was nothing if not tenacious. She would find them, she would torture them, and she would kill them. And it was all because of me.

“Look here!” an unfamiliar witch cried after several long moments. Every person in the clearing turned to stare at what she held in her hands.

A scarlet ribbon.

And there—staining the witch’s palms on contact—

Blood.

I closed my eyes in defeat. The memory of Etienne’s head on my boot soon rose up to meet me, however, forcing them open once more. It would be Gabrielle’s head next. Even now—at this very second—Morgane could be mutilating her tiny body. She would shear her auburn braid and slice her pale throat—

Ismay’s cries turned hysterical, and the others soon took up her panicked call.

Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Gabrielle!

Her name echoed within the grove, between the trees. Inside my mind. As if in response, the feu follet flickered out one by one, leaving us in darkness. Despite their frantic attempts to conjure a tracking spell, they knew her fate as well as I did. We all knew.

Gabrielle didn’t answer.

She never would.

At long last, Ismay fell to her knees, weeping, pounding the snow in anguish.

I wrapped my arms around my waist, doubling over against the nausea, but a hand caught my nape, forcing me upright. Cold, dark eyes met my own. “Compose yourself.” La Voisin’s grip hardened. When I tried to wriggle away, biting back a cry of pain, she watched me struggle with grim determination. “Your wish has been granted, Louise le Blanc. The Dames Rouges will join you in Cesarine, and I myself will rend your mother’s beating heart from her chest.”

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

The First Performance

Reid

Twilight had settled over Domaine-les-Roses when Claud took to his stage the next evening—a cracked fountain in town square, its basin filled with leaves and snow. Ice coated the rim, but he didn’t slip as he danced along it. With fingers as deft as his feet, he plucked a mandolin in a lively rhythm. The audience shouted their approval. Some divided into couples, laughing and spinning wildly, while others showered Seraphine’s feet with petals. Her voice rose above the crowd. Unearthly. Passionate. Too beautiful to be human.

When I pulled at my leather trousers, sullen, my mother tipped her cup toward me. Inside, a pink-colored liquid swirled. The villagers of Domaine-les-Roses fermented their own rose petal wine. “This might help, you know.”

I arched a brow, readjusting my pants again. “I doubt it.”

She’d donned a new dress for our performance tonight. Black and white. Garish. The edges of her mask had been trimmed with ludicrous poms. Still, no one had assaulted her with kohl. My eyes burned. Itched.

Zenna hadn’t told me how to remove it without blinding myself.

Worse still—Deveraux hadn’t provided a shirt with my costume. I’d been forced to strap my bandolier to my bare chest. Though I’d thrown on a coat for modesty’s sake—and to protect against the bitter wind—I doubted he’d allow it during The Red Death’s performance.

I told myself it was for the best. If a Chasseur hid in the audience, he wouldn’t recognize me. He wouldn’t suspect his once great captain of parading shirtless. Of flinging knives or lining his eyes with cosmetics. Of wearing a mask that extended into horns. I was ridiculous. Debased. Heat burned my throat, my ears, as a memory surfaced.

It won’t kill you to live a little, you know.

I’m a Chasseur, Lou. We don’t . . . frolic.

Glaring out at the festivities from the stoop of a boulangerie, I watched as Beau wove through the audience with a tin can and hooded cloak. In his free hand, he held a wooden scythe. Deveraux had thought it a fitting addition to the sinister costume. In the alley beside us, Toulouse and Thierry had set up a tent to peddle their services. To lure the weak with promises of fame and fortune-filled futures. Women paraded past them, batting their lashes. Blowing kisses. I couldn’t fathom it.

“They’re handsome,” Madame Labelle explained, smirking as Toulouse caught a girl’s hand and kissed it. “You can’t fault them for that.”

I could, and I did. If the villagers’ feathered ensembles were any indication, Domaine-les-Roses was a bizarre town.

“Being young and beautiful isn’t a crime, Reid.” She pointed to the young woman nearest us, who’d been watching me for the last quarter hour. Bold. Blond. Buxom. “You have many admirers yourself.”