Our mistress will not be pleased with us.

I am disappointed, Nicholina, she will say. I told you to kill them all.

We glance at our wrists. At the red smear of blood there. Her blood. La Princesse Rouge. Kill them all, she will say. Except the princesses.

Except the princesses.

More potent than pain—more potent than magic—our fury simmers and bubbles, a poison all its own. Noxious. We must not kill her. Though she has forsaken her family, forsaken my mistress, we must obey.

We must make our mistress proud. We must show her. Then she will realize our worth, yes, she will realize our love. She will never speak of her treacherous niece again. But the others . . .

I will drown them in L’Eau Mélancolique.

They think they’ve trapped me with their ropes, with their threats, with their bane, but their threats ring empty. They know nothing of pain. No, no, no, true pain lies outside the sensation of blood and skin. It lies beyond blisters.

It lies deep within.

The mice continue squeaking as the huntsman pulls me forward. Rocks line the path at the edge of the forest. Above us, thick smoke still darkens the afternoon sky. Below, waves crash tumultuously, oh yes. They warn of a storm. Of calamity. Do not fret, little mouse, we tell the princess, inhaling deep. Reveling. The dead should not remember.

I am not dead.

Soon, we promise. Very soon, your mother shall devour your body, and we in turn shall devour the rest. Like a mouse in a trap.

One might say you’re the mouse now, Nicholina.

Oh?

My mice press closer, ever curious, and we smile as the huntsman scowls over his shoulder. “Is something funny?” he snaps. Though we smile all the wider, we will not answer. He cannot stand our silence. It aggrieves him, and he expels a sharp breath through his nose, muttering a promise of violence. We welcome it. Relish it.

The mouse continues without hearing his words. We laugh because he cannot hear hers either.

It’s true, she insists. The others were never meant to know about La Voisin’s betrayal. They were never meant to know about you. But you failed at the lighthouse, and Morgane won’t forget it. I know my mother. You’ve broken her trust. She’ll kill you at the first opportunity—like a mouse in a trap.

We scoff through her nose, smile vanishing. Our mistress will protect us.

Your mistress will sacrifice you for the greater good. Just like my mother will sacrifice me. As if sensing something within us—she senses nothing—she pushes brazenly against our consciousness. We feel each kick, each elbow, though she has no feet or arms. It matters not. She cannot touch us, and soon she will fade into the others. Soon she will be ours. You’ve chosen the wrong side, Nicholina. You’ve lost. Reid and Coco will never allow us near the Chateau now.

My mice hiss and whisper their uncertainty. She knows nothing, I croon to them. Hush now, mouses. “The dead should not remember, beware the night they dream. For in their chest is memory—”

The huntsman jerks us forward viciously, and we stumble. A crow startles from a nearby fir.

It has three eyes.

You know what’s coming, Nicholina. It isn’t too late to stop it. You can still relinquish my body, ally with us before Morgane and Josephine betray you. Because they will betray you. It’s only a matter of time. Me, Reid, Coco, Beau—we could protect—

Bitterness pulses through us at the promise. Promises, promises, empty promises. They taste black, acrimonious, and we shall choke her with them. We shall fill her throat with eyes, eyes, eyes until she cannot breathe beneath their weight. Her consciousness does not flinch under our pressure. We push harder. We restrict and contract and compress until at last she recoils, hardening into a small, hopeless blemish. A blight in our nest. You think you are clever, we hiss, but we are cleverer. Oh yes. We shall kill them all—your precious family—and you shall forget each one.

NO—

But her panic means nothing. It tastes empty, like her promise. She is already dead.

Her friends will join her soon.

A Murder of Crows

Reid

Nicholina stopped walking abruptly. Her face twitched and spasmed as she muttered what sounded like nasty over and over again. Her mouth twisted around the word. “What’s nasty?” I asked suspiciously, tugging her forward. She yielded a single step. Her eyes fixed on a distant tree at the edge of the forest. A fir. “What are you looking at?”

“Ignore her.” Coco glanced at us over her shoulder, huddling deeper in her cloak. Along the coast, the wind blustered stronger than in La Fôret des Yeux. Colder. “The sooner we reach a village, the sooner we’ll find black pearls for Le Cœur Brisé.”

“Pearls.” Beau scoffed and kicked a rock into the sea. “What a ridiculous payment.”

“Le Cœur guards L’Eau Mélancolique.” Coco shrugged. “The waters are dangerous. They’re powerful. Without payment, no one broaches their shores.”

Beside Thierry, Célie wrinkled her nose as I forced Nicholina another step. Two. “And you think we’ll find these . . . black pearls in the next village?”

“Perhaps not the next one.” Coco marched back to prod Nicholina along. She’d seemed to grow roots. She still stared at the fir tree, tilting her head in contemplation. I looked closer, the hair on my neck rising. A solitary crow perched there. “But there are a handful of fishing villages between here and L’Eau Mélancolique.”

Worse still—the white dog had reappeared, stalking us with those eerie, silent eyes. With a panicked curse, Beau kicked another rock at him, and he disappeared in a plume of white smoke.

“Aren’t black pearls . . . rare?” Célie asked delicately.

Yes. Thierry noticed the crow as well. His brow furrowed. Though he hadn’t spoken his plans aloud, I suspected he’d travel with us as long as we continued north. Toward L’Eau Mélancolique. Toward Chateau le Blanc. Morgane had tortured him and his brother—that much had been clear in his memories—yet Thierry was here. Toulouse wasn’t. But anything can be bought for the right price, he said softly.

“Move, Nicholina,” Coco snapped, joining me at the rope. Nicholina jolted at the words, and we realized our mistake too late. With a vindictive smile, she curled her pointer finger toward her palm.

A single feather fell from the crow’s wing.