Unsheathing my stolen Balisarda, I whirled, prepared for another witch. Instead, I met two: Babette supporting Madame Labelle as they hobbled into the street. An enormous smile stretched across my mother’s face. “Reid!” She waved with her entire body, presumably healed by Babette’s blood. The lesions and bruises from the trial had vanished, replaced by vibrant skin, if a touch pale. I exhaled a sharp breath. My knees weakened in a dizzying wave of relief.

She was here.

She was alive.

Crossing the street in three great strides, I met her halfway, crushing her in my arms. She choked on a laugh. Patted my arm. “Easy, son. It takes a bit more time for the insides to heal, you know.” Though she still beamed, clapping my cheeks, her eyes tightened at the corners. Babette looked unusually grave behind.

I met her gaze over my mother’s head. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me.” She waved an errant hand. “Your mother supplied my first job in this city. I owed her one.”

“And still owe me many more,” Madame Labelle added, turning to eye the courtesan waspishly. “Do not think I’ve forgotten, Babette, the time you dyed my hair blue.”

Only then did Babette crack a sheepish grin. After another moment, she glanced around us covertly. “Pray tell, huntsman, have you seen our lovely Cosette?”

“She’s with Beau. They headed north.”

Her smile fell slightly. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me.”

She left without delay, and I wrapped a steadying arm around Madame Labelle’s waist. “Where have you been? Are you well?”

“I am as well as possible, given the circumstances.” She shrugged delicately. “We took a leaf out of your wife’s book and hid in Soleil et Lune’s attic. No one bothered us there. Perhaps none knew of its importance to Lou. If they had, I suspect Morgane would’ve razed it out of spite.” When I nodded to them across the chasm, her expression crumpled. She shook her head. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. How sickening.” Those piercing blue eyes flitted up to mine, filled with regret. “Babette told me that Auguste perished by his own fire. Stupid, arrogant man.” As if realizing the tactlessness of her words, she patted my arm again. “But he—he was very—”

“He tortured you,” I said darkly.

She sighed, crestfallen. “Yes, he did.”

“He deserved worse than death.”

“Perhaps. We must content ourselves that wherever he is, he is in great pain. Perhaps with rats. Still . . .” She wobbled slightly, unsteady on her feet. My arm tightened around her. “He was your father. I am sorry for it, but I am never sorry for you.” She touched my cheek once more before glancing at Lou. “You must go. If you could walk me to the nearest bench, however, I’d be most grateful. I should like to watch the sun rise.”

I stared at her incredulously. “I can’t leave you on a bench.”

“Nonsense. Of course you can. No witch with any sense would attack us now, and those that do—well, I believe more than one Chasseur survived, and that Father Achille has quite a nice—”

“I’ll stop you there.” Though I shook my head, one corner of my mouth curled upward. Unbidden. “Father Achille is off-limits.”

It wasn’t true. She could have whoever she wanted. I would personally introduce them.

After situating her on a bench—beds of winter jasmine blooming on either side—I kissed her forehead. Though night still claimed the sky, dawn would come soon. With it, a new day. I knelt to catch my mother’s eyes. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve ever told you.”

Scoffing, she busied herself with her skirt. Still, I saw her eyes. They sparkled with sudden tears. “I only expect to hear it every day from this moment onward. You shall visit at least thrice a week, and you and Louise shall name your firstborn child after me. Perhaps your second too. That sounds reasonable, does it not?”

I chuckled and tugged on her hair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Go on, then.”

As I walked back to Lou, however, I heard low voices down a side street. Familiar ones. A keening wail. Frowning, I followed the sound to Gabrielle and Violette. They stood huddled on a stoop between Beau, who’d wrapped one arm around each of them. Coco hovered behind, one hand clapped to her mouth. At their feet, Ismay and Victoire lay sprawled unnaturally, facedown, surrounded by a half-dozen witches. None stirred.

Stricken, unable to move, I watched as Beau’s face broke on a sob, and he pulled the two girls into his chest. Their shoulders shuddered as they clutched him. Their tears raw. Anguished. Intimate. The sight of them punched me in the gut. My siblings. Though I hadn’t known Victoire as well as Beau, I could have. I would have. The pain cut unexpectedly sharp.

It should’ve been me on those cobblestones. Morgane had wanted me, not her. She’d wanted Beau. Not Victoire, a thirteen-year-old child.

Guilt reared its ugly head, and I finally turned. I walked back to Lou. I waited.

This time, she lifted her head to greet me.

I held her gaze.

Nodding, she smoothed Morgane’s hair, her touch tender. Full of longing. She closed her mother’s eyes. Then she rose heavily to her feet—bent as if bearing the weight of the very sky—and she left her there.

When she crossed the bridge, I extended my arms to her at last, and she fell into them without a sound. Her face pale and drawn. Broken-hearted. I leaned to rest my forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”

She held my face between both hands. Closed her eyes. “Me too.”

“We’ll get through this together.”

“I know.”

“Where you go—”

“—I will go,” she finished softly. Her eyes opened, and she brushed a kiss against my lips. “Who survived?”

“Let’s find out.”

As I’d suspected, the chasm split the entire city in two. Lou and I walked it hand in hand. Near the cathedral, we found Toulouse and Thierry. They stared into the chasm’s depths with Zenna and Seraphine. No one spoke a word.

“What do you think happened to him?” Lou whispered, slowing to a stop. This wake wasn’t meant for us. It was meant for them. Troupe de Fortune. Claud’s family. “Do you think he . . . died?”

I frowned at the prospect. Pressure built in my chest. Behind my eyes. “I don’t think gods can die.”