I froze. That was where Célie lived.

“A woman?” The Archbishop frowned and leaned forward, taking the letter. The seal had been pressed into the shape of a rose. He reached into his robes for a thin knife to open it. “Who?”

“I don’t know, Your Eminence.” Pink tinged Ansel’s cheeks. “She had bright red hair and was very”—he coughed and stared at his boots—“very beautiful.”

The Archbishop’s frown deepened as he flicked open the envelope. “It does not do to dwell on earthly beauty, Ansel,” he chided, turning his attention to the letter. “I expect to see you at confession tomor—” His eyes widened at whatever he read there.

I stepped closer. “Sir?”

He ignored me, eyes still fixed on the page. I took another step toward him, and his head snapped up. He blinked rapidly. “I—” He shook his head and cleared his throat, turning his gaze back to the letter.

“Sir?” I repeated.

At the sound of my voice, he lurched to the fireplace and hurled the letter into the flames. “I am fine,” he snapped, clasping his hands behind his back. They trembled. “Do not worry yourself.”

But I did worry. I knew the Archbishop better than anyone—and he didn’t shake. I stared into the fireplace, where the letter disintegrated into black ash. My hands curled into fists. If a witch had targeted Célie like Filippa, I would rip it limb from limb. It would beg for the flames before I finished with it.

As if sensing my gaze, the Archbishop turned to look at me. “Assemble a team, Captain Diggory.” His voice was steadier now. Steelier. His gaze flicked back to the fireplace, and his expression hardened. “Though I sincerely doubt the validity of this woman’s claim, we must uphold our vows. Search the area. Report back immediately.”

I placed a fist over my heart, bowed, and moved toward the door, but his hand snaked out and caught my arm. It no longer trembled. “If a witch is indeed in West End, bring it back alive.”

Nodding, I bowed once more. Resolute. A witch didn’t need all its limbs to continue living. It didn’t even need its head. Until burned, witches could reanimate. I’d break none of the Archbishop’s rules. And if bringing back a witch alive would ease the Archbishop’s sudden distress, I would bring back three. For him. For Célie. For me.

“Consider it done.”

The Heist

Lou

We hastily donned our costumes in Soleil et Lune that night. Our safe haven and haunt, the theater’s attic provided an endless repository of disguises—gowns, cloaks, wigs, shoes, and even undergarments of every size, shape, and color. Tonight, Bas and I strolled in the moonlight as a young couple in love—clothed in the rich, sumptuous fabrics of aristocrats—while Coco trailed behind as an escort.

I snuggled into his sinewy arm and cast him an adoring look. “Thank you for helping us.”

“Ah, Louey, you know how I dislike that word. Help implies I’m doing you a favor.”

I smirked, rolling my eyes. “God forbid you do anything from the goodness of your heart.”

“There is no goodness in my heart.” Winking roguishly, Bas pulled me closer and leaned down to whisper in my ear. His breath was too warm against my neck. “Only gold.”

Right. I elbowed him in a seemingly innocent gesture and shifted away. After the nightmarish parade, we’d spent the greater part of the afternoon plotting our way through Tremblay’s defenses, which we’d confirmed after a quick jaunt past his townhouse. Bas’s cousin lived near Tremblay, so hopefully our presence hadn’t roused suspicion.

It’d been just as Bas described: a gated lawn with guard rotations every five minutes. He assured me additional guards would be posted inside, as well as dogs trained to kill. Though Tremblay’s staff would probably be asleep when we forced entry, they were an additional variable over which we had no control. And then there was the matter of locating the actual vault—a feat that could take days, let alone the few hours before Tremblay returned home.

Swallowing hard, I fidgeted with my wig—blond and piled high with pomade—and readjusted the velvet ribbon at my throat. Sensing my anxiety, Coco touched her hand to my back. “Don’t be nervous, Lou. You’ll be fine. The Brindelle trees will mask the magic.”

I nodded and forced a smile. “Right. I know.”

We lapsed into silence as we turned onto Tremblay’s street, and the ethereal, spindly trees of Brindelle Park glowed softly beside us. Hundreds of years ago, the trees had served as a sacred grove to my ancestors. When the Church had seized control of Belterra, however, officials had attempted to burn them to the ground—and failed spectacularly. The trees had regrown with a vengeance. Within days, they’d towered above the land once more, and settlers had been forced to build around them. Their magic still reverberated through the ground beneath my feet, ancient and unchanged.

After a moment, Coco sighed and touched my back again. Almost reluctantly. “But you do need to be careful.”

Bas whipped his head around to face her, brows furrowing. “Excuse you?”

She ignored him. “There’s something . . . waiting for you at Tremblay’s. It might be the ring, but it might be something else. I can’t see it properly.”

“What?” I lurched to a halt, spinning to face her. “What do you mean?”

She fixed me with a pained expression. “I told you. I can’t see it. It’s all hazy and unsettled, but something is definitely there.” She paused, tilting her head as she considered me—or rather, as she considered something I couldn’t see. Something warm and wet and flowing just beneath my skin. “It could be malevolent, but I don’t think whatever it is will harm you. It’s—it’s definitely powerful, though.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I couldn’t see it before.”

“Coco, we’ve been planning this all day—”

“I don’t make the rules, Lou,” she snapped. “All I can see is what your blood shows me.”

Despite Bas’s protests, Coco had insisted on pricking our fingers before we’d left. I hadn’t minded. As a Dame Rouge, Coco didn’t channel her magic through the land like me and the other Dames Blanches. No, her magic came from within.