“Why don’t you speak, Thierry?” I asked.

He didn’t answer me right away, but I felt his eyes upon my face. I sensed his deliberation. I said nothing more, however, watching as Toulouse gestured to the crystal ball. The woman extended her hand instead, and Toulouse traced the lines on her palm. Her withered mouth lifted in a smile.

At long last, Thierry sighed.

Then—impossibly—I heard a voice in my head. An actual voice. Like Toulouse’s, but softer. Exceedingly gentle.

Toulouse and I grew up in the streets of Amandine.

I should’ve been surprised, but I wasn’t. Not after everything I’d seen. After everything I’d done. Part of me rejoiced at having been right—Toulouse and Thierry St. Martin had magic. The other part couldn’t celebrate. Couldn’t do anything but study the elderly woman in Toulouse’s tent. With each stroke of his fingers, the woman seemed to grow younger, though her features never changed. Her skin rosier. Her eyes clearer. Her hair brighter.

We stole what we needed to survive. Thierry too watched his brother help an old woman feel beautiful again. At first, we were only pickpockets. A couronne here and there to purchase food, clothing. But it was never good enough for Toulouse. He eventually set his sights on wealthier marks—comtes, marquises, even a duc or two.

He gave me a mournful smile. By then, Toulouse had learned real wealth didn’t come from stolen trinkets, but from knowledge. We stole secrets instead of gems, sold them to the highest bidder. It didn’t take long for us to gain a reputation. A man named Gris eventually recruited us to join his crew. He sighed then, looking down at his hands. Toulouse and Gris got into an argument. Toulouse threatened to spill his secrets, and Gris retaliated by cutting out my tongue.

I stared at him in horror. “He cut out your tongue.”

In response, Thierry slowly opened his mouth, revealing a hollow circle of teeth. At the back of his throat, the stump of his tongue moved uselessly. Bile rose in my own throat. “But you did nothing. Why were you punished?”

The streets are cruel, huntsman. You’re lucky you never knew them. They change you. Harden you. The secrets, the lies necessary to survive . . . they aren’t easily unlearned. His eyes flicked back to his brother. I don’t hold Toulouse responsible for what happened. He did what he felt was necessary.

“He’s the reason you don’t have a tongue.”

Gris knew the best way to keep my brother silent was to threaten me. And it worked. The night I lost my voice is the night he lost his. Toulouse has been a secret keeper ever since. And a better man.

Unable to wrap my head around such fortitude—such acceptance, such steady calm—I changed courses. “You said you lost your voice, yet I can hear it clearly in my mind.”

We found our magic that night—and I’d already paid the price of silence. Our ancestors allowed me to communicate a different way.

That caught my attention. “You didn’t know you had magic?”

To my surprise, it wasn’t Thierry who answered. It was Deveraux. He ambled toward us from the scarlet wagon, hands in his pinstriped pockets. His paisley coat gaped open over a shirt riddled with a polka dots, and the peacock feather in his hat bounced with each step. “Tell me, Reid, if you’d never seen the color red, would you know what it looks like? Would you recognize it on that cardinal?” He gestured to the roof of the boulangerie, where a crimson bird had perched. As if sensing our attention, it took flight.

“Er . . . no?”

“And do you think it could fly if it spent its entire life believing it couldn’t?”

At my frown, he said, “You’ve spent a lifetime subconsciously repressing your magic, dear boy. Such an undertaking is not easily undone. It seems only the sight of your wife’s lifeless body was powerful enough to release it.”

My eyes narrowed. “How do you know who I am?”

“You’ll soon find out I know a great deal of things I shouldn’t. A rather obnoxious corollary of making my acquaintance, I’m afraid.”

Thierry’s laughter echoed inside my mind. It’s true.

“And . . . and you?” I asked, throwing caution to the winds. He knew who I was. What I was. There was no sense pretending otherwise. “Are you a witch, Monsieur Deveraux?”

“From one honest man to another?” He gave a cheery wink and continued toward the square. “I am not. Does that answer your question?”

A nagging sensation pricked the back of my skull as he disappeared into the crowd.

“No, it doesn’t,” I muttered bitterly. The old woman rose to leave as well, drawing Toulouse into a bone-crushing hug. If I hadn’t seen her transformation myself, I would’ve sworn she was a different person. When he kissed her cheek in return, she blushed. The gesture—so innocent, so pure—twisted sharp in my chest. Combined with Deveraux’s enigmatic exit, I felt . . . off balance. Adrift. Such magic wasn’t done. This—all of this—it wasn’t right.

Thierry’s hand came down on my shoulder. You see magic as a weapon, Reid, but you’re wrong. It simply . . . is. If you wish to use it for harm, it harms, and if you wish to use it to save . . . Together, we looked to Toulouse, who tucked a flower behind the woman’s ear. She beamed at him before rejoining the crowd. It saves.

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Part II

Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire.

When the wine is drawn, one must drink it.

—French proverb

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Red Death and His Bride, Sleep Eternal

Reid

Zenna’s necklace—large, gold, its diamond pendent the size of my fist—battered my face as she leaned over my hair. She’d lathered her hands in a putrid paste to style the waves. I pushed her necklace away irritably. Eyes stinging. If I tossed her kohl out of the wagon, would she notice?

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, swatting my hand away from the death stick.

Beau had conveniently disappeared when Zenna brought forth her pouch of cosmetics. I hadn’t seen my mother since we’d parked in this field, either. The villagers of Beauchêne, a hamlet on the outskirts of La Fôret des Yeux, had constructed an actual stage for troupes passing through—much different from the town squares and pubs in which we’d been performing. They’d set it up here this afternoon. Merchant and food carts had followed. As the sun gradually slipped out of sight, laughter and music drifted into the amber wagon.

My chest ached inexplicably. Six days had passed since my first performance. Beauchêne was the last stop on Troupe de Fortune’s official tour. Within Cesarine, Deveraux and his actors would disappear into the catacombs beneath the city, where the privileged of society mingled with the dregs. Uninhibited, wanton, and masked.

La Mascarade de Crânes, Madame Labelle called it.

The Skull Masquerade.

I’d never heard of such a spectacle. She hadn’t been surprised.

Deveraux finished buttoning his vest. “A little more volume on top if you please, Zenna. Ah, yes. That’s the ticket!” He winked at me. “You look resplendissant, Monsieur Red Death. Absolutely resplendent—and as you well should! Tonight is a special night, indeed.”