August spoke through his teeth. “That will not be necessary. This conclave has heard enough of your ludicrous ramblings.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, the pursuit of knowledge isn’t ludicrous. Not when a woman’s life is in jeopardy—”

“Careful, Father, lest I deem it heretical instead.”

Achille’s mouth snapped shut in response, disappearing into his beard, and Auguste addressed the congregation once more. “Let us try this again, shall we? All those in favor of burning the witch?”

Every hand in the courtroom rose. Every hand but one. Though Achille watched his peers decide my mother’s fate with an inscrutable expression, he kept both hands fixed at his sides. Firm. Implacable. Even under the king’s baleful gaze. “It seems you have been outvoted,” Auguste sneered. “My word is divine.”

“We’ll rescue you,” Lou whispered furiously to Madame Labelle. “I don’t know how, but we will. I promise.”

Madame Labelle might’ve shaken her head.

“Why wait until week’s end?” Achille’s voice shook with restraint. “You’ve made our decision. Why not burn the witch now?”

Auguste chuckled and clapped a threatening hand on Achille’s shoulder. “Because she is only the bait, you foolish man. We have much bigger fish to catch.” To Philippe, he said, “Spread word far and wide throughout the kingdom, Captain. Madame Helene Labelle will burn”—he cast a pointed look at Achille now—“and any who object will meet the same fate.”

Achille bowed stiffly. “You must follow your conscience, Your Majesty. I must follow mine.”

“See that your conscience leads you outside the cathedral in three days’ time. At sunset, you shall light her pyre.” With that, he strode through the vaulted doors once more, and the courtroom vanished into smoke.

Part IV

Qui sème le vent, récolte la tempête.

He who sows the wind shall reap the tempest.

—French proverb

What Happiness Looks Like

Lou

Though Angelica and her iron chalices had gone when we resurfaced, Beau, Célie, and Jean Luc floated atop the inlet in a fishing boat. A fishing boat. Célie grinned with palpable excitement from the flybridge, gripping the helm with both hands. Her smile quickly fell at our grim expressions, however, and she called out, “What’s wrong?”

I waited until we’d climbed aboard to answer. “Isla’s gift was shit.”

We wouldn’t be able to reach Cesarine before Madame Labelle burned to ash. When Coco said as much—explaining the conclave’s decision, Father Achille’s involvement, and Auguste’s last words—Beau patted the stern. “This is her gift. Or at least, this is Angelica’s. It’ll get us there in time.” He shrugged and added, “I wouldn’t worry about my father. He has a flair for dramatics, but he knows what he’s doing even less than we do.”

“You didn’t see him.” I wrung out my hair, cursing at the cold. The strands had already started to freeze, and gooseflesh steepled my entire body. “He wasn’t acting. He knows we’ll come to rescue Madame Labelle. He plans to trap us, like he did before.” I glanced around the ramshackle boat. “And this won’t get us to Cesarine anytime soon.”

“It will.” Nudging Célie aside, Beau nodded as Jean Luc dropped the sail, and we slipped through the waters with speed. “I learned to sail when I was three.” He arched a smug brow at Coco, adding, “The admiral of the Royal Navy taught me himself.”

Beside me, Coco rubbed her arms, and Reid clenched every muscle, refusing to shiver despite his lips turning blue. Célie hurried to fetch us blankets in the cabin belowdecks. But blankets wouldn’t help. Not really. Reluctantly, I reached for the white patterns, bracing as they shimmered into existence. I frowned at the sensation—the breadth of possibility still startled, but after a second or two of adjustment, it felt . . . good. Like stretching after sitting too long in one position. More curious still, instead of pulling me toward Chateau le Blanc, the magic seemed to be pulling me toward—

What matters now is whether you—La Dame des Sorcières—still consider this place your home. If not, it stands to reason your magic won’t protect it anymore. It’ll shift to your new home. Wherever that is.

It was too easy to pluck a cord now. A burst of hot air enveloped Reid and Coco—then me—and I watched, bemused, as the snow along the path melted. Warmth for warmth. The white pattern dissipated with it.

“How did you do that?” Coco asked suspiciously.

“I melted the snow.”

“I thought nature demanded sacrifice?” Her eyes narrowed, skimming my face and body for signs of damage. “How is melting snow a sacrifice?”

I shrugged helplessly, struggling to articulate this strange new power even to myself. Morgane had seemed limitless as La Dame des Sorcières, and—at least in this natural way—perhaps she had been. “I am the snow.”

She blinked at me in response. They all did. Even Célie, as she returned with slightly moldy blankets. I wrapped mine around my shoulders, burrowing into its warmth. The pattern had dried us, yes, but the bitter wind still remained. I tried and probably failed to clarify. “It’s like . . . before, my magic felt like a connection to my ancestors. I gained my patterns through them. Now, as La Dame des Sorcières, I am them. I’m their ashes, their land, their magic. I’m the snow and the leaves and the wind. I’m . . . boundless.” It was my turn to blink, to stare. I probably sounded like a raving lunatic, but I didn’t know how else to describe it. Perhaps words couldn’t describe it.

“But”—Coco cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable—“you heard what happened to my aunt without checks and balances. She and her followers pushed too far. They slaughtered their coven as a result, and the Goddess punished them. She—she punished your mother too.”

“The Goddess gave my mother a chance to redeem herself at La Mascarade des Crânes. She gave her a warning. When Morgane didn’t heed it, Aurore revoked her blessing. See? There are checks and balances. And I can’t”—I turned my sight inward, examining the patterns there—“I can’t do anything unnatural with it. At least, I don’t think I can. I can’t kill anyone, or—”