“Talk to me, Chass,” I hissed, wishing desperately that Beau hadn’t thieved my earplugs.

He regarded me with open suspicion. “About what?”

“Anything. Whatever comes to—”

“You can try to justify it all you’d like.” Coco didn’t bother to lower her voice. “How many times did I visit this beach, crying for you? How many times did you ignore me?”

“You would’ve lived a half life with me, Cosette. I wanted more for you.”

Unable to help myself, I glanced behind to see Coco staring at her mother incredulously. “What about what I wanted, maman? You and tante—all either of you have ever cared about is this stupid feud. I’m the collateral damage, aren’t I? I’m the one who suffers.”

“We all have suffered,” Angelica said sharply. “Do not mistake me, Cosette. Your aunt and I were among the very first of witchkind. Yes”—she nodded at Coco’s dumbfound expression—“I have lived a hundred lives. Perhaps more, even. Time passed differently then.” To me, she lifted an impatient hand. “Come, Louise le Blanc. You should hear this too. A battle brews on the horizon more catastrophic than this world has ever seen, and we must all play our parts. This is mine.”

I crept closer tentatively. “We really don’t have time for this. Morgane has already started for Cesarine—”

“If you wish to defeat your mother—and my sister—you will make time.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and in the next second, she’d drawn a thin blade from her sleeve, slicing it across the palm of each hand. Her blood spilled thick upon the sand, and from it, black vines curled upward into the shape of chairs. She pointed to them, blood still trickling down her wrists. Tiny blooms of purple aconite sprouted where it dripped to the beach. “Sit. Now. I will not ask again.”

Aconite meant caution.

I grabbed Reid’s sleeve and forced him to sit, sinking into my own chair without further argument. Opposite me, Coco did the same, and Angelica stood in the center of our macabre little circle. She pivoted slowly to look each of us directly in the eyes. “This is your story—all of yours—so listen now and listen well. In the beginning, magic lived within all witches. Yes, you heard me correctly, Louise,” she added when I tried to interrupt. “Though you call us Dames Rouges now, your ancestors’ magic was closer to ours than to yours. It coursed through their blood, hummed in their veins. They lived in harmony with nature, never taking more than they gave and never defying the natural way. They lived. They died. They thrived.” She bowed her head. “I was one of these original witches, as was my twin sister, Josephine.”

“What happened?” Coco whispered.

Angelica sighed. “What always happens? In time, some among us desired more—more power, more freedom, more life. When a sect of my kin began experimenting with death, a great rift rose between us.” Angelica knelt before Coco now, clasping her hands once more. “Your aunt was among them. I pleaded with Josephine to turn back, to forget this obsession with immortality, but when I caught her eating an infant’s heart, I could ignore her sickness no longer. I had to act.” A new vine crept up Coco’s chair from Angelica’s tears. Like the aconite, its petals bloomed purple, but this wasn’t aconite at all. It was deadly nightshade. “I forbade my sister from returning to Chateau le Blanc.”

“You lived there?” I asked in astonishment.

“We all did. That is what I’m trying to tell you, Louise—this is the great rift between Dame Blanche and Dame Rouge. Though I forbade Josephine from returning, she did not heed my warning, instead gathering the like-minded and organizing a rebellion.” Shuddering, she pushed to her feet, and the belladonna vine slithered higher, curling around the back of Coco’s chair. “I’ve never seen such blood.”

I stared at her, heart pounding, as another memory resurfaced: blood running as a river from the temple, soaking the hair and hems of fallen witches in its path. The Rift. And suddenly, it made sense—I hadn’t seen Coco within this memory at all. I’d seen Angelica. Angelica had been the faceless woman.

She closed her eyes now. “They killed them. Our kin. Our mothers and sisters and aunts and nieces—all gone within a single night, butchered like animals. Despite everything, however, Josephine couldn’t kill me. Not after our blood oath.”

“She couldn’t torture you,” I said in dawning realization.

“No, but she could banish me, and she did so without hesitation. We would not meet again for many years.” Her hands shifted to her elbows, and she seemed to bow into herself. “I watched from afar as her Dames Rouges reaped their just rewards, as they realized the steep cost of their victory—all witchlings born after the massacre held no magic within them. Whether their slain sisters or the Goddess herself had cursed them, I do not know. Forced to draw their magic from the land—and follow the natural order—their daughters, the first Dames Blanches, soon outnumbered their foremothers. My sister’s influence dwindled as her experiments continued, growing darker and darker in nature. The Dames Blanches grew suspicious of her, and when the time was right, I capitalized on their hatred, on their fear, returning to the Chateau and driving Josephine from the throne.”

Shooting to my feet, I began to pace, my thoughts sporadic and incomplete. “But I didn’t know you were a blood witch.”

“No one ever knew. I guarded the secret jealously for fear of persecution, concealing the truth of my magic with painstaking effort. I was a coward—I always have been—but in the end, it mattered not. When I leapt to my doom in L’Eau Mélancolique, Isla saved me—or rather, she saved my ring.” She rubbed her thumb along the band. “My magic. Without it, I am not whole, and without me, neither is L’Eau Mélancolique. For this reason, Isla wishes me to avoid involvement in your war. She does not understand that it is my war as well.”

Voice raw with unshed emotion, Coco whispered, “If Josephine dies, you will too.”

Her words sank like bricks in my stomach.

Abruptly, Angelica turned, her knife a blur as she slashed the nightshade from coiling around Coco’s neck. I gasped, Reid startled, and Coco leapt to her feet with a small shriek. None of us had noticed its creeping tendrils, the fruits of Angelica’s grief and anger. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “We must all play our parts.”