Backlit, however, his face remained shadowed.

But I could still see his smile. He laughed with three young women, heedless of Queen Oliana beside him. She stared determinedly at nothing, expression as stony as the steps beneath her. In the corner of the room, a handful of aristocrats in foreign clothing shared her features. Shared her anger. Theirs were the only sober faces in the room.

Resentment prickled beneath my skin as I took in the bards, the wine, the food.

These people did not mourn the Archbishop. How dare they mock his death with their revelry? How dare they speak idly beneath black hoods? No mourning veil could hide their apathy. Their hedonism. These people—these animals—did not deserve to grieve him.

On the heels of that thought, however, came another. Shame burned away my righteousness.

Neither did I.

Beau beat the dust from his cloak, smoothed his hair as best he could. It did little to help his travel-worn appearance. “Right. I’ll enter the proper way and request an audience. If he’s amenable—”

“You’ll call us forward,” I finished, mouth dry.

“Right.” He nodded. Kept nodding. “Right. And if he’s not . . . ?” He waited expectantly, brows climbing upward each second I didn’t answer. “I need to hear a confirmation, Reid.”

My lips barely moved. “We run.”

Madame Labelle clasped my forearms. “Everything will be fine,” she repeated. Beau didn’t look convinced. With one last nod, he strode in the opposite direction from whence we’d come. Unconsciously, I stepped closer to the gap between wall and tapestry. Waited for him to reappear. Watched as two familiar figures cut toward the dais.

Pierre Tremblay and Jean Luc.

Expression drawn, stricken, Jean Luc pushed Tremblay forward with inappropriate force. Those nearest the king stilled. Tremblay was a vicomte. Jean Luc assaulting him—in public, no less—was a punishable offense. Frowning, Auguste waved the women away, and the two climbed the dais steps. They leaned close to whisper in Auguste’s ear. Though I couldn’t hear their hasty words, I watched as Auguste’s frown deepened. As Oliana leaned forward, concerned.

The throne room doors burst open a moment later, and Beau strode in.

Audible gasps filled the chamber. All conversation ceased. One woman even emitted a small shriek. He winked at her. “Bonjour, everyone. I am sorry if I kept you waiting.” To his mother’s family in the corner, he added in a softer voice, “Ia orana.”

Tears filled Oliana’s eyes as she leapt to her feet. “Arava.”

“Metua vahine.” Upon seeing her, Beau’s smile warmed to something genuine. He tilted his head to peer behind her at someone I couldn’t see. “Mau tuahine iti.” When delighted squeals answered him, my heart stuttered painfully. Two someones. Violette and Victoire. I pressed closer, trying in vain to see them, but Madame Labelle pulled me back.

Auguste stiffened visibly at his son’s arrival. His eyes never left Beau’s face. “The prodigal son returns.”

“Père.” Beau’s smirk reappeared. His armor, I realized. “Did you miss me?”

Absolute silence reigned as Auguste studied his son’s rumpled hair, his filthy clothes. “You disappoint me.”

“I assure you, the sentiment is mutual.”

Auguste smiled. It held more promise than a knife. “Do you think you’re clever?” he asked softly. He still didn’t bother to rise. “Do you mean to embarrass me with this tawdry display?” With a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured around the chamber. “By all means, do continue. Your audience is rapt. Tell them of how disappointed you are in your father, the man who ravaged the countryside for weeks to find his son. Tell them of how your mother wept herself to sleep all those nights, waiting for word. Tell them of how she prayed to her gods and mine for your return.” Now he did stand. “Tell them, Beauregard, of how your sisters slipped out of the castle to find you, how a witch nearly cut off their heads.”

Fresh gasps sounded as Beau’s eyes widened.

Auguste descended the steps slowly. “They’re all waiting to hear, son. Tell them of your new companions. Tell them of the witches and werewolves you call friends. Perhaps they’re already acquainted. Perhaps your companions have murdered their families.” His lip curled. “Tell them of how you abandoned your family to help the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières—the daughter whose blood could kill not only you, but also your sisters. Tell them of how you freed her.” He reached Beau at last, and the two stared at each other. For a second. For an eternity. Auguste’s voice quieted. “I have long tolerated your indiscretions, but this time, you go too far.”

Beau tried to sneer. “You haven’t tolerated them. You’ve ignored them. Your opinion means less to me now than it ever has—”

“My opinion,” Auguste snarled, fisting the front of Beau’s shirt, “is the only reason you haven’t been lashed to a stake. You dare to dismiss me? You dare to challenge your father for the sake of a witch’s dirty cunt?” Auguste shoved him away, and Beau stumbled, blanching. No one lifted a hand to steady him.

“It isn’t like that—”

“You are a child.” At the venom in Auguste’s voice, the aristocrats drew back further. “A cosseted child in a gilded tower, who has never tasted the blood of war or smelled the stench of death. Do you fancy yourself a hero now, son? After a fortnight of playing pretend with your friends, do you call yourself a warrior? Do you plan to save us?” He shoved him again. “Have you ever seen a loup-garou feast on the intestines of a soldier?” And again. “Have you ever watched a Dame Blanche desiccate a newborn babe?”

Beau struggled to his feet. “They—they wouldn’t do that. Lou wouldn’t—”

“You are a child and a fool,” Auguste said coldly, “and you have humiliated me for the last time.” Expelling a hard breath from his nose, he straightened to his full height. My height. “But I am not without mercy. Captain Toussaint told me of your grand plan to defeat La Dame des Sorcières. Tell me the location of her daughter, and all will be forgiven.”

No. Panic caught in my throat. I forgot to breathe. To think. I could only watch as Beau’s eyes widened. As he yielded a step to his father. “I can’t do that.”

Auguste’s face hardened. “You will tell me where she is, or I will strip you of your title and inheritance.” Shocked whispers erupted, but Auguste ignored them, his voice growing louder with each word. With each step. Oliana touched a hand to her mouth in horror. “I will banish you from my castle and my life. I will condemn you as a criminal, a conspirator, and when you burn beside your friends, I will think of you no more.”

“Father,” Beau said, aghast, but Auguste did not stop.

“Where is she?”

“I—” Beau’s gaze darted helplessly to his mother, but she merely closed her eyes, weeping softly. He cleared his throat and tried again. I held my breath. “I can’t tell you where she is because I—I don’t know.”

“Frère!” From behind Oliana, a beautiful girl with Beau’s black hair and tawny skin darted forward. My chest seized as she wrung her hands, as Auguste swept her backward, away from Beau. “Frère, please, tell him where she is. Tell him!”