Her shield vanished instantly.

Shouting her name, I dove forward, prying one’s arm from her neck, but sharp pain pierced my thigh. I didn’t look. I couldn’t—not as they plunged a syringe, two syringes, three, into Lou’s throat simultaneously. Not as her back bowed, her body thrashed, her hands reached for me. “Reid! Reid!” Her voice sounded as if from a tunnel. At last, she tore free, catching me as my knees gave out. The Tower shook around us. Her body jolted from impact as she shielded me from arrow after arrow. More than one protruded from her back now. Her arms. Her legs. Still she dragged me toward the cage’s door, which Philippe had flung wide.

Hands pulled at our clothing, our hair, flinging us to the council room floor. My vision faded as they descended on Lou like ants. As she collapsed, unmoving, under their syringes. They would kill her before she reached the stake. Lou. Clenching my teeth, delirious with pain—with fear—I focused on her dimming skin harder than I’d focused on anything in my life. Hard knees pressed into my back.

She’ll die she’ll die she’ll die

Gold exploded in my vision—and I to my feet—but it was too late.

A quill stabbed into my neck, and the world went dark once more.

I woke to shouts.

To smoke. The scratch of hay at my feet and hard wood at my back. Tight binds on my wrists. Stomach lurching, I pried my eyes open. It took a moment for them to focus. My vision swam.

Torches.

They flickered in the darkness, casting an orange haze over the scene. Over the faces. So many faces. The entire city pressed together in the street below. With a start, I realized I stood above them. No. I closed my eyes, pitching forward with a heave. The ropes kept me upright. They held me in place. I didn’t stand at all. My eyes snapped open again at the realization.

The stake.

They’d tied me to the stake.

Details rushed in quickly after that, disorienting my senses—the steps of the cathedral, the wooden platform, the warm presence at my back. “Lou.” The word slurred on my tongue from the hemlock. My head pounded. I struggled to crane my neck. “Lou.” Her hair spilled over my shoulder, and her head lolled. She didn’t respond. Unconscious. I strained in earnest now, trying to see her, but my body refused to obey. Someone had removed the blue-tipped arrows, at least. They’d clothed her in a clean chemise. Anger fanned as quickly as the drug at that fresh injustice. A Chasseur had undressed her. Why?

I glanced down at my own simple shirt and woolen trousers. They’d removed my boots.

Leather doesn’t burn.

Blue coats lined the streets, forming a barricade. They kept the crowd at bay. My eyes narrowed, and I blinked slowly, waiting for the scene to sharpen. Philippe stood among them. Jean Luc too. I recognized his black hair. His broad neck and bronze skin. He didn’t look at me, his attention focused on Célie, who stood at the front of the crowd with her parents. No Coco. No Beau. No Claud or Blaise or Zenna.

No one.

“Lou.” Careful not to move my lips—to keep my voice quiet—I tried to nudge her with my elbow. My arms wouldn’t move. “Can you . . . hear me?”

She might’ve stirred. Just a little.

More shouts sounded as a child broke free of the line. A little girl. She chased a . . . ball. She chased a ball. It rolled to a stop at the base of the platform. “You aren’t as tall as I thought you’d be,” she mused, peering up at me beneath auburn fringe. Familiar. My eyes fluttered. There were two of her now. No—another child had joined her. A pale boy with shadows in his eyes. He held her hand with a solemn expression. Though I’d never seen it before, I almost recognized his face.

“Do not lose hope, monsieur,” he whispered.

Another shout. A Chasseur strode forward to shoo them away.

My mouth couldn’t properly form the words. “Do I . . . know you?”

“Le visage de beaucoup,” he said with an unnerving smile. It pitched and rolled with my vision. Garish in the firelight. “Le visage d’aucun.” His voice faded as he trailed away.

The face always seen, the face never remembered.

Meaningless words. Nonsensical ones. “Lou,” I pleaded, louder now. Desperate. “Wake up. You have to wake up.”

She didn’t wake.

Imperious laughter beside me. Golden patterns. No—hair. Auguste stepped into my line of vision, a torch in one hand. The flames burned not orange, but black as pitch. Hellfire. Eternal fire. “You’re awake. Good.”

Behind him, Gaspard Fosse and Achille Altier climbed the platform, the former with an eager smile and the latter with a sickened expression. Achille glanced at me for only a second before murmuring something to Auguste, who scowled and muttered, “It matters not.” To me, Auguste added, “Your Balisarda’s fruit may not have curbed this wretched fire—not yet—but its wood certainly carried this momentous day.” He lifted his hand to catch a strand of Lou’s hair. “We had the cage crafted just for the two of you. A bittersweet end, is it not? To be killed by your own blade?”

When I said nothing—only stared at him—he shrugged and examined the torch. “Though I suppose it will not be the Balisarda to deliver the final blow. Perhaps I should be grateful the priests have failed. Now you shall burn eternal.”

“As will your . . . city,” I managed.

The words cost me. Achille flinched and looked away as I choked on bile, coughed on smoke. He didn’t intervene this time. He didn’t say a word. How could he? The pyre had been built. He would burn next.

With one last sneer, Auguste turned to address his kingdom. “My loving people!” He spread his arms wide. His smile wider. The crowd quieted instantly, rapt with attention. “Tonight, at last we eradicate a great evil plaguing our kingdom. Behold—Louise le Blanc, the new and nefarious La Dame des Sorcières, and its husband, the man you once knew as Captain Reid Diggory.”

Boos and hisses reverberated from the street.

Though I tried to summon my patterns, they shimmered in and out of focus in a golden blur. The hemlock had served its purpose. My stomach rolled. My hands refused to move, to even twitch. They’d coated the ropes. Concentrate.

“Yes, behold,” Auguste continued, quieter now. He lifted the torch to our faces. “A witch and a witch hunter, fallen in love.” Another chuckle. Some in the crowd echoed it. Others did not. “I ask you this, dear subjects—” The torch moved to Achille now, illuminating his dark eyes. They simmered with revulsion as he stared at his king. With rebellion. “Did it save the kingdom? Their sweeping romance? Did it unite us, at last?” Now he gestured to the smoke overhead, the charred stone of the church, the blackened and broken buildings that littered the street. Chasseurs stood at every ruin, containing the flames. “No,” Auguste whispered, his gaze lingering on their blue coats. “I think not.”