I managed not to impale my mother.

Sweat curled my hair, slicked my skin, as I threw my last knife, untethered her from the board, and pushed through the horde of women who’d gathered to watch our performance. They giggled. Tittered. The blonde seemed to be following me. Everywhere I turned, she appeared, dragging two friends in tow. Batting her lashes. Angling her body to brush mine. Irritated, I spotted Beau through the crowd and beelined toward him.

“Here.” I hooked his arm and wheeled him in their direction. “Distract them.”

A roguish chuckle sounded beneath his hood. “With pleasure.”

I slipped away before the girls could follow.

Claud had parked the wagons in the alley behind the St. Martins’ tent. No one would bother me there. I’d have a moment alone to think, to change. To scrub my face. I half listened to Zenna as I wove through the crowd, cursing her and her stick of kohl. At least she hadn’t painted my lips blue, as her own. Beneath her extraordinary cloak, a silver dress rippled as she lifted her arms to begin her performance. Bangles glittered on her wrists.

“Herald! Hark! Hold dear ones close!” The cadence of her voice deepened, turned rich and melodic. A hush fell over the audience. “For this, a tale most grandiose of maiden fair and dragon dire—and their love, which ends in fire.”

Oi. Verse.

I kept walking. As suspected, Deveraux had confiscated my coat. The wind cut across my bare skin.

“Tarasque, a fearsome beast was he, but Martha, gentler far was she.” Enraptured, the crowd stilled as she continued her story. Even the children. I snorted and walked faster, shivering. “Tarasque a mighty fire sprayed, but Martha closed her eyes and prayed.”

At the last, my footsteps slowed. Halted. Against my better judgment, I turned.

Torchlight cast half of Zenna’s face in shadow as she tipped her chin to the sky, clasping her hands in prayer. “‘Suffer not for me, O Lord, but spare my kin the dragon’s hoard!’ And as her cry did pierce the sky, Tarasque looked down from kingdom high.” Zenna spread her arms wide, fanning the cloak behind her. In this flickering light, the fabric became wings. Even her eyes seemed to glow. “‘Who is this morsel, luscious treat, who calls to me with voice so sweet? I shall eat her, bones and all!’ And so Tarasque began to fall.”

Despite the cold, there was something in her voice, her expression, that held me there. My mother’s words echoed around Zenna’s. Toulouse and Thierry St. Martin—probably even Zenna and Seraphine—are not what they appear.

Like the others, I listened, rapt, as she wove her tale of woe: how Martha’s family—crazed with fear—offered her up to the dragon for slaughter, how Tarasque took her as his bride and the two fell in love. How, eventually, Martha longed to return to her homeland, where her father secretly lay in wait with a magic chain. How he used it to fell Tarasque, to hold him while he burned his own daughter at the stake.

At this, Zenna’s eyes found mine. Unadulterated hatred simmered within them. I felt it in my own chest.

Her voice grew louder, stronger, as she finished the story.

“Mighty was the dragon’s roar, as he broke the magic ore. And from their heads did bodies part, those men who stole his love—his heart.” Across the square, the blonde wept into Beau’s shoulder. Actually wept. And yet—I couldn’t scorn her. “To this day, he roves above, still grieving for his lady love. He withers crops and salts the earth and slaughters men, who rue their birth. Herald! Hark! Hold dear ones close, for this a tale of tears and woe, of maiden dead and dragon dire . . . and his wrath, which ends in fire.”

She heaved one last, tremendous exhale, and her breath in the cold night air billowed like smoke from her lips. Absolute silence descended in its wake. Undeterred, she swept to the ground in a magnificent bow. Her cloak pooled around her as liquid starlight. She remained that way, posed, until the audience finally found their voice. They erupted in cheers—louder even than they’d given Deveraux and Seraphine.

I gaped at her. What she’d done with her words—it shouldn’t have been possible. When she’d told me Claud collected only the exceptional, I hadn’t quite believed her. Now I knew. Now I felt. Though I didn’t examine the emotion too closely, it wasn’t a comfortable one. My face burned. My throat tightened. For those brief moments, Tarasque had felt real—more than real. And I’d felt sorry for a monster who’d kidnapped his bride and beheaded her kin.

Her kin who had burned her.

Never before had I thought of the women I’d burned. Not even Estelle. I’d thought only of Lou, who wasn’t like them. Lou, who wasn’t like other witches. How convenient, she’d told me before we’d parted. You see what you want to see.

Had I burned my own kin? I had no way of knowing, but even if I did . . . I couldn’t handle such knowledge. Couldn’t bear the consequences I’d reap, atone for the pain I’d inflicted. For the love I’d stolen. Once I would’ve argued such creatures weren’t capable of love. But Lou had proved otherwise. Madame Labelle and Coco had proved otherwise.

Perhaps Lou wasn’t like other witches.

Perhaps they were like her.

Unnerved by the realization, I barreled toward the wagons, heedless of those around me. But when I almost knocked a small boy to his knees, I lurched to a halt, catching his collar to steady him. “Je suis désolé,” I murmured, dusting off his tattered coat. His shoulders felt thin under my hands. Malnourished.

He clutched a wooden doll to his chest and nodded, keeping his eyes downcast.

Reluctant to release him, I asked, “Where are your parents?”

He gestured back toward the fountain, where Zenna had started an encore. “I don’t like dragons,” he whispered.

“Smart child.” I glanced behind him toward Toulouse and Thierry’s tent. “Are you . . . in line?”

Again, he nodded. Perhaps not so smart, after all. I let him go.

When I reached the amber wagon, however, I couldn’t help but turn to watch him enter their tent. Though I couldn’t see Toulouse’s face, I could still see the boy’s. He requested the crystal ball. When Toulouse set it on the table between them—right next to a pot of incense—I tensed.

The boy clearly had little coin. He shouldn’t be spending it on magic.

A hand caught my arm before I could intervene. My free hand flew to my bandolier, but I stopped mid-motion, recognizing Thierry. He’d tied his hair away from his face. The style emphasized his harsh cheekbones. His black eyes. With the hint of a smile, he released me, jerking his chin toward the tent. I frowned as the boy handed Toulouse his doll—a wooden carving, I realized. It had horns. Hooves. Peering closer, I vaguely recognized the shape of it from Lou’s bottle of wine. I wracked my brain, failing to remember its name.

Toulouse accepted it carefully with one hand. He stroked the crystal ball with his other.

Within the mist of the glass, shapes began to form: the familiar horned man ruling over flora and fauna, a winged woman crowned with clouds. A third woman with fins soon joined them. The boy clapped in delight as she flitted through ocean waves. His laughter, it sounded . . . wholesome.

My frown deepened.

When he scampered from the tent a moment later, he still clutched his coin in hand—no. A stack of coins. Toulouse hadn’t taken from the boy. He’d given to him. I stared, incredulous, as an elderly woman stepped up to the table.