“I’m not interested.”

“Ah, yes.” She winked at her own admirers. “For a moment, I forgot I spoke to the inexorable Saint Reid.”

“I’m not a saint. I’m married.”

“To whom? Louise Larue? I’m afraid the girl doesn’t exist.”

My fingers stilled around the knife in my hand. “And what’s my name, Maman?” She stiffened at the word, her eyes flying wide. Vicious satisfaction stole through me. “Diggory, Lyon, or Labelle? Should I choose one arbitrarily?” When she didn’t answer, opening and closing her mouth—spots of color blooming high on her cheeks—I turned away. Resumed rotating my knife. “A name isn’t a person. I don’t care what a stupid piece of paper says hers is. I made a vow, and I will honor it. Besides,” I muttered, “these girls look like birds.”

These girls aren’t Lou.

“You think Louise has never worn feathers in her hair?” Madame Labelle returned to herself with a thready laugh. “Those are swan feathers, dear boy, and we wear them to honor the Maiden. See that bonfire? The villagers will light it for Imbolc next month—as Louise has done every year since her birth, I assure you.”

My eyes sharpened with newfound interest on the girl, on the revelers near her. They clapped and stamped their feet to Claud’s mandolin, shouting praises. Fingers sticky from honey almond fritters. Rosemary biscuits. Seeded rolls. I frowned. The entire square reeked of vitality. Vitality—not fear. “They dare celebrate Imbolc?”

“You are far from Cesarine, my dear.” She patted my knee. Belatedly, I glanced at the door behind me, at the doors of all the shops lining the street. Not a single wanted poster. Whether Claud or the villagers had removed them, I didn’t know. “In the north, the old ways are still more common than you think. But don’t fret. Your brethren are too thick-witted to realize what swan feathers and bonfires mean.”

“They aren’t thick-witted.” A knee-jerk response. I ducked my head when she chuckled.

“I had to enlighten you, didn’t I? How can you condemn your culture if you don’t know your culture?”

“I don’t want to know my culture.”

Sighing heavily, she rolled her eyes. “Mother’s tits, you are petulant.”

I whirled to face her, incredulous. “What did you just say?”

She lifted her chin, hands clasped in her lap. The picture of poise and grace. “Mother’s tits. It’s a common enough expletive at the Chateau. I could tell you all about life there if you’d unclog the wax from your ears.”

“I—I don’t want to hear about my mother’s tits!” Cheeks flaming, I stood, determined to put as much distance between myself and that disturbing image as possible.

“Not mine, you blathering ingrate. The Mother’s. As in the Triple Goddess. When a woman grows a child in her womb, her breasts swell in preparation for feeding—”

“No.” I shook my head vehemently. “No, no, no, no, no. We aren’t discussing this.”

“Honestly, Reid, it’s the most natural thing in the world.” She patted the spot beside her. “You’ve been raised in a grossly masculine environment, however, so I’ll forgive your immaturity just this—oh, for goodness’ sake, sit.” She caught my wrist as I tried to flee, pulling me down beside her. “I know I’m in dangerous territory, but I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you.”

I forced myself to look at her. “Breasts?”

She rolled her eyes. “No. Louise.” At my bewildered expression, she said, “Are you . . . sure about her?”

The question—so unexpected, so absurd—jarred me to my senses. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Tilting her chin, she seemed to think hard on her next words. A wise decision. She was in dangerous territory. “You met only a few months ago. How well can you really know her?”

“Better than you could,” I growled.

“I doubt that very much. Morgane was my dearest childhood friend. I loved her, and she loved me. We were closer than sisters.”

“So?”

“So I know how alluring the le Blanc women can be.” As if sensing the rising tide in me, she plucked my knife away and sheathed it in her boot. “To be near them is to love them. They’re wild and free and excessive. Addictive. They consume us. They make us feel alive.” My hands trembled. I clenched them into fists. “But they’re also dangerous. This will always be your life with her—running, hiding, fighting. You will never know peace. You will never know family. You will never grow old with her, son. One way or another, Morgane will not allow it.”

Her words knocked the breath from me. A second passed as I regained it. “No. We’ll kill Morgane.”

“Louise loves her mother, Reid.”

I shook my head vehemently. “No—”

“Every child loves their mother. Even those with complicated relationships.” She didn’t look at me, intent on sipping her wine. On watching Deveraux dance. His music faded to a dull roar in my ears. “But we aren’t discussing Lou and her mother, or her mother and me. We’re discussing the two of you. Louise has started her descent. I know the signs.” She nodded at my unspoken question. “Yes. The same thing happened to Morgane. You cannot stop it, and you cannot slow it down. It will consume you both if you try.”

“You’re wrong.” Vitriolic anger coated the words, but Madame Labelle didn’t recoil. Her voice only strengthened, sharpened.

“I hope so. I don’t want this darkness for her—and I certainly don’t want it for you. Think hard on your choice, son.”

“I’ve made my choice.”

“There are very few choices in life that can’t be unmade.”

Deveraux and Seraphine ended their song to roar of applause. A small part of me recognized it was our turn to take the stage, but I didn’t move. I wanted to shake at her, to make her understand. There are very few choices in life that can’t be unmade, she’d said. But I’d already killed the Archbishop. That was one choice I couldn’t unmake—and even if I could, I wouldn’t.

I’d lied when I’d said I’d made my choice.

In truth, there’d been no choice at all. There never had been.

I loved her.

And if I had to run, hide, and fight for that love, I would. For the rest of my life, I would.

“I implore you to choose carefully,” Madame Labelle repeated, rising to her feet. Her face was grave. “Louise’s story does not end in happiness. It ends in death. Whether at her mother’s hands or her own, she will not remain the girl with whom you fell in love.”

Pressure built behind my eyes. “I’ll love her anyway.”

“A noble sentiment. But you owe no one unconditional love. Take it from someone who knows—when a person brings you more hurt than happiness, you’re allowed to let them go. You do not have to follow them into the dark.” She smoothed her skirts before extending a hand to me. Her fingers were warm, steady, as she led me toward the stage. “Let her go, Reid, before she takes you with her.”