Father Gaspard wasn’t a holy man.

I frowned at my own abrupt conclusion. What had I seen to form such an assumption? He’d defended a Chasseur from open criticism. He’d grown his parish. Both should’ve been admirable behaviors, biblical ones, but they weren’t. They weren’t, and I didn’t understand—not him, not the Church, not this growing heat in my chest or this pricking sensation along my skin. Like it’d grown several sizes too small.

“You are forgiven, child,” he said, despite Philippe’s gray-streaked beard. “All is forgiven in pursuit of our noble cause. The Father knows your heart. In violence against these creatures, he compels your hand.”

Gaspard ambled down the steps toward Philippe. Slowly. Almost leisurely. Sleek and proud and superior. Father Achille might’ve rolled his eyes. Regardless, he hobbled down his own stairs, following Gaspard’s lead across the chamber. The two met on either side of the podium. Of my mother.

Achille stepped in front of her. His robes shielded her comatose body. “He never compels our hands to violence.”

“Stand down, old man.” Though murmured, Gaspard’s voice still reverberated through the quiet room. One could’ve heard a pin drop. “We are here to burn the witch, not coddle it.”

My cheeks flushed with anger, with inexplicable hurt. But I shouldn’t have been agitated, I shouldn’t have been hurt, and I definitely shouldn’t have felt concern for the witch below. As with Célie and Gaspard, however, I couldn’t explain my own decisions.

I didn’t love her anymore.

I didn’t like Father Gaspard.

And I didn’t want my mother—a witch—to suffer. I didn’t want her to burn.

Sick shame washed through me at the last, and I sank onto the nearest bench. Desperate to regain my composure. When Lou followed, touching a hand to my back, I forced myself to count to three, to five, to ten. Anything to focus my turbulent thoughts. I knew what I should do. I pictured it clearly—unsheathing my knife to lop off her hand. To plunge it into her heart.

Equally clear, I pulled her close and buried my nose in her neck. I tasted her scar. I spread her legs across my lap, and I touched her gently, touched her not gently, touched her any way she wanted. When her lips parted, I stole my name from them, and I kept it forever—not a scream of pain, but a cry of longing.

This is how you touch a woman. This is how you touch me.

Pain cleaved my skull in two at the stark imagery, and I pitched forward, seizing my head. Expelling the hateful words. The hateful voice. As they scattered and drifted, the pain receded, but my shame fanned hotter than before. Intolerable. I moved to fling her hand away from me. I stopped at the last moment.

When she leaned over my shoulder, her hair tickled my cheek. “Reid?”

“No decision has been made,” Achille growled.

Gaspard smiled. A cat with a juicy secret. “Of course it has. I cannot blame you for this ignorance, of course, as your idealism has hardened many against you. They dare not speak freely in your presence for fear of censure.” When Achille didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply—not a frown, not even a blink—he continued, “By all means, however, let us wait for His Majesty to tally the vote. He arrives at any moment.” He leaned forward to whisper something in Achille’s ear then. A real whisper, this time. Not a feigned one. Stiffening, Achille muttered something back. As if given permission, the conclave broke into low conversation of their own, all waiting for my father to arrive.

Lou sat beside me. “They won’t really burn her. Don’t worry.”

Her thigh pressed into my own. I forced myself to scoot away. “They will.”

Coco grimaced and slid beside Lou, bouncing her own leg in agitation. “Unfortunately, I think he’s right. Auguste will probably burn her with the Hellfire out of spite.”

Lou glanced at me in alarm, eyes wide. “What do we do?”

“Nothing.” When she arched a brow, unimpressed, I scowled and added, “There’s nothing we can do. Even if I wanted to help her—which I don’t—there isn’t time. My mother is a witch, and she’ll burn for her sins.”

“You are a witch,” Lou snapped. “And even if you weren’t, you’ve conspired with us plenty.” She ticked off my crimes on her fingers, each a knife coated in poison. “You’ve married a witch”—I didn’t remember—“slept with a witch”—I wished I did—“hidden and protected a witch, multiple times”—I closed my eyes, innards clenching—“and best yet: you’ve murdered for a witch. Four of us, to be precise.” My eyes snapped open as she rotated a finger between the three of us. Then jabbed it toward the chamber floor. “And the most important of those is bleeding out on the carpet right now. Because of you, might I add. She sacrificed herself for you. Her son. Whom she loves.”

Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.

But I wasn’t a holy man either.

I clenched my fists and looked away. “I can’t do magic.”

“You can.” Voice conversational, Coco examined a scar on her wrist. “And many times, you practiced when Lou wasn’t directly involved, which means you’re choosing to forget.” When I opened my mouth to answer, to snarl, she merely flicked a finger at me. “Shut up. I’m not interested in excuses. Isla gifted us this vision, so we need to pay attention. We’re here for a reason.”

I glared at her as she glared at me. Crossing her arms, Lou exhaled hard through her nose. Still angry. We had that in common too, apparently. After a moment, she asked, “What does Madame Labelle have to do with electing a new Archbishop?”

“They’re using her indictment as their own sort of tribunal.” I shouldn’t have explained anything to her. I couldn’t stop. Jerking my chin toward Achille and Gaspard, I added, “Those two are positioning themselves for the title.”

Coco grimaced and scanned the chamber. Presumably for whatever Isla had wanted us to find. “Achille had better win.”

Lou glanced between us. “Do you know him?”

“He was the priest in Fée Tombe. He recognized us from the wanted posters, yet he still sheltered us for the night, even fed us his breakfast. He didn’t like Beau much,” Coco added, as if this were another mark in the man’s favor. “He’ll make the first decent Archbishop that Belterra has ever seen.”