“You don’t know that,” I said fiercely.

“You’re being willfully ignorant.”

“I’m being hopeful.”

“You think I don’t want to believe Lou will be okay?” She shook her head in disgust. No—in pity. She pitied me. My teeth clenched until they ached. “That Nicholina will go easily, that Lou will wake up and smirk and ask for fucking sticky buns? You think I don’t want to pretend the past three months never happened? The past three years?” Her voice broke on the last, her facade finally splintering, but she didn’t cower. She didn’t look away. Even as fresh tears slipped down her cheeks, as every emotion shone clear in her eyes. Every unspoken fear. Her voice flattened as she continued. “You’re asking me to hope, Reid, but I can’t. I won’t. I’ve hoped too much and too long. Now I’m sick with it. And for what? My mother left, Ansel died, my aunt betrayed me. The person I love most in this world has been possessed.” She scoffed through her tears, through the smoke that curled from the sand, and lifted the vial to Lou’s lips. “Why should I hope?”

I seized her wrist to still the movement. Forced her to meet my eyes. “Because she’s the person you love most in this world.”

She stared at me over our hands. Her fingers tightened around the vial. “Let me go.”

“What are you doing?”

“Healing her.” She snatched her wrist back, wiping furiously at her tears. “Because apparently, I can’t heal myself. I’m sick with hope, but I can’t make it go away. It’s still here, even now. Poisoning me.” When she looked back at Lou, one of her tears dripped from her cheek to Lou’s throat. To Lou’s scar. Together, we watched—silent and anxious—as the tear sizzled against her skin, transforming the silver gash into something else entirely.

Into a vine of thorns and roses.

Delicate, intricate—still silver and raised on her skin—the scar looked less a disfigurement now. More a masterpiece.

And it was.

Behind us, Célie gasped. A small, wondrous sound. “Il n’y a pas de roses sans épines.”

There is no rose without a thorn.

Coco said nothing, staring at the scar with a frightfully blank expression. I hardly dared breathe. One blink. Two. When her eyes opened on the third, resolve had crystallized sharp and bright within them. I nearly wept. “My blood poisoned Lou because Nicholina has assumed control,” she said. “I can’t use it to heal her.” She lifted the vial once more. “We’ll use my aunt’s blood instead. It won’t evict Nicholina, but it’ll counteract the effects of mine. It’s powerful—more powerful than anything on this earth. It’s also rare. I nicked it from her tent at the blood camp.” She grinned then. A truly terrifying grin. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Parting Lou’s lips, she tipped the entire vial between them. Honey followed.

Color immediately returned to Lou’s cheeks, and her breathing deepened. The blisters on her mouth vanished. The transformed scar, however, remained. If I looked too close, it seemed to . . . ripple in the breeze. Unconsciously, I lifted a hand to touch it, but Beau cleared his throat, startling me. He’d moved closer than I’d realized.

I dropped my hand.

“What happens when she wakes up?” he asked.

Coco’s grin faded. “We exorcise Nicholina.”

“How?”

Silence reigned in answer. Waves lapped the black sand. A lone gull cried overhead. At last, Célie offered a tentative, “You said . . . you said my father’s locket—”

“My mother’s locket,” Coco corrected her.

“Of course.” Célie nodded in haste, trying her best not to look horribly, terribly out of her depth. “Y-You said the magic of your mother’s locket stems from L’Eau Mélancolique. It showed us Nicholina’s true reflection.”

“And?”

“You said the waters can heal.”

“I also said the waters can harm. They were created from the tears of a madwoman.” Coco stood, tucking the empty vials back into her pack. I remained beside Lou, tracking the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyelids began to twitch. “They’re volatile. Temperamental. They’re just as likely to kill Lou as to restore her. We can’t risk it.”

Between one breath and another, an idea sparked. My gaze darted to Célie. The empty sheath on my bandolier—right above my heart—weighed heavier than usual. I hadn’t felt its absence since Modraniht. “We need a Balisarda, Célie.” I scrambled to my feet. Sand flew in every direction as I rushed toward her. “Jean Luc—you can contact him, right?” She murmured something unintelligible in response, her gaze dropping to her boot with keen interest. “If you ask, he’ll bring you his Balisarda, and we can—”

“And we can what?” Beau asked, perplexed. Célie stooped to pick up a whitewashed shell, hiding her face altogether. “Cut Nicholina out of her?”

“We’d just need to break her skin with the blade,” I said, thinking rapidly. Yes. Yes, this could work. I plucked the seashell from Célie’s hand and discarded it. She watched it go with a forlorn expression, still refusing to look at me. “A Balisarda dispels enchantments. It would exorcise Nicholina—”

Beau lifted a casual, mocking hand. “Just how deep would we need to cut, brother? Would it be a simple slice down her arm, or would a spear through her heart suffice?”

I shot him a glare before gripping Célie’s freed hands. “Write to him, Célie.” Then, in another burst of inspiration, I spun toward Coco. “You could magic him the letter, like you did with your aunt in the Hollow.”

“Magic a letter into Chasseur Tower?” Coco rolled her eyes. “They’d lash him to a stake by morning.”

Célie pulled her hands from mine. Gentle at first, then firm. She reluctantly met my eyes. “It matters not. He will not come.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s mad about you—”

“No, Reid,” she insisted. “The conclave has assembled in Cesarine to elect a new Archbishop. It’s why he didn’t follow me in the first place. His presence has been requested by the priests, by the king. He cannot come here, and I cannot ask him—not for this. Not for Lou. I am sorry.”