Injections.

He’d drugged us—drugged me—like I was a—a—

Bile burned up my throat.

Like I was a witch.

Madame Labelle struggled against her binds. “Really, Auguste, this isn’t necessary—”

“You dare address His Majesty so informally?” Oliana asked. Her voice pitched and rolled with my consciousness.

“Forgive me,” Madame Labelle snapped. “After birthing a man’s child—and all that predicates such a happy occasion—I assumed formalities would cease. An egregious mistake.”

I vomited again, unable to hear Oliana’s reply.

When I reopened my eyes, the room sharpened. Mahogany shelves filled with books. A carved mantel. Portraits of stern-lipped kings and embroidered carpet beneath booted feet. I blinked, vision honing in on the Chasseurs lining the walls. At least a dozen. Each held a hand to the Balisarda at his waist.

Except the Chasseur who stood behind me. He held his at my throat.

A second moved to stand behind Madame Labelle. His blade drew blood, and she stilled. “At least clean him up,” she said weakly. “He isn’t an animal. He is your son.”

“You insult me, Helene.” Auguste crouched before me, tracking a hand in front of my face. My eyes struggled to follow it. “As if I’d allow even my hounds to sit in their own spew.” He snapped his fingers. “I need you to focus, Reid. Mass starts in a quarter hour, and I cannot be late. The kingdom expects me to mourn that sanctimonious prick. I shan’t disappoint them.”

Hatred burned through the haze of my thoughts.

“But you understand the importance of keeping up pretenses, don’t you?” He arched a golden brow. “You had all of us fooled, after all. Including him.” My stomach heaved again, but he leapt backward just in time, lip curling. “Between the two of us, I’m pleased you killed him. I cannot count the times that filthy hypocrite presumed to admonish me—me—when all this time, he’d stuck his cock in Morgane le Blanc.”

“Yes, a filthy hypocrite,” Madame Labelle echoed pointedly. The Chasseur behind her ripped her hair backward, pressing his blade deeper into her throat. She said no more.

Auguste ignored her, tilting his head to study me. “Your body reacted to the injection. I suppose that proves Phillipe’s claim. You are a witch.”

I forced my head upright through sheer power of will. For one second. Two seconds. “I would like to see . . . your body . . . react to hemlock . . . Your Majesty.”

“You poisoned them?” Beau asked in disbelief. Another Chasseur held him in the corner of the room. Though his mother shook her head desperately, he didn’t acknowledge her. “You put hemlock in those injections?”

“A fucking gilded tower.” Auguste rolled his eyes. “I have little patience for your voice at the moment, Beauregard—or yours, Oliana,” he added when she tried to interrupt. “If either of you speak again, you will regret it.” To me, he said, “Now, tell me. How is it possible? How did you come to exist, Reid Diggory?”

A grin rose, unbidden, and I heard Lou’s voice in my head. Even then—trapped backstage with two of her mortal enemies—she’d been fearless. Or perhaps stupid. Either way, she hadn’t known how right she was. “I believe,” I gasped, “when a man and a . . . witch . . . love each other very much—”

I anticipated his strike. When it came, my head thudded against the chair and stayed there. A laugh bubbled from my lips, and he stared at me like I was an insect. Something to quash beneath his boot. Perhaps I was. I laughed again at the irony. How many times had I drugged a witch? How many times had I worn his exact expression?

He grabbed my chin, crushing it between his fingers. “Tell me where she is, and I promise you a quick death.”

My grin receded slowly. I said nothing.

His fingers bit harder. Hard enough to bruise. “Are you fond of rats, Reid Diggory? They’re ugly little creatures, to be sure, but beneath their beastly hides, I must admit to sharing a certain kinship with them.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He smiled then. It was cold. “They’re intelligent, rats. Resourceful. They value their own survival. Perhaps you should heed their good instinct.” When still I said nothing, his smile grew. “It’s a curious thing when you trap a rat atop a man’s stomach—let’s say, for example, with a pot. Now, when you apply heat to said pot, do you know how the rat responds?” He shook my head for me when I didn’t answer. “It burrows through the man’s stomach, Reid Diggory. It bites and claws through skin and flesh and bone to escape the heat. It kills the man, so it might survive.”

At last, he released me, standing and flicking a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the vomit from his fingers in distaste. “Unless you desire to be that man, I suggest you answer my question.”

We stared at each other. The shape of his face wavered. “I won’t,” I said simply.

The words echoed in silence of the room.

“Hmm.” He picked something up from his desk. Small. Black. Cast iron. “I see.”

A pot, I realized.

I should’ve felt fear. Perhaps the hemlock prevented it. Perhaps the rolling nausea or splitting headache. He wanted me to fear him. I could see it in his eyes. In his smile. He wanted me to tremble, to beg. This was a man who relished dominance. Control. I’d helped him, once. As his huntsman. I’d sought his approval as my king. Even after—when I’d learned his role in my conception, my suffering—I’d wanted to know him, deep down.

I’d dreamed up a version of him from my mother’s stories. I’d accepted her rose glasses. But this man was not him.

This man was real.

This man was ugly.

And—looking at him now—all I felt was disappointment.

Slowly, he placed the pot on a rack above the fire. “I shall ask you one more time—where is Louise le Blanc?”

“Father—” Beau started, pleading, but with the wave of Auguste’s hand, the Chasseur struck him in the head. When he slumped, dazed, Oliana’s shrieks filled the cabinet. She rushed toward him, but Auguste caught her around the waist, flinging her against his desk. She collapsed to the ground with a sob.

“I said be silent,” Auguste snarled.

Madame Labelle’s eyes widened.

“Who are you?” Her voice climbed higher with disbelief. “The man I loved would never have treated his family this way. That is your wife. These are your sons—”

“They are no sons of mine.” Auguste’s face flushed as he gripped the arms of Madame Labelle’s chair. As he bent low in her face, eyes burning with wild intensity. “And I shall have another son, Helene. I shall have a hundred more sons to spite that heinous, white-haired bitch. My legacy will live on. Do you understand me? I don’t care if I have to fuck every woman in this godforsaken spit of land, I will not yield.” He lifted a hand to her face, but he didn’t touch her. His fingers clenched with hatred. With longing. “You beautiful, fucking liar. What am I going to do with you?”

“Please, stop this. It’s me. It’s Helene—”

“You think I loved you, Helene? You think you’re any different from the others?”