Beau drifted closer. “Are they really clawed?” Savage satisfaction stole through me when I saw Madame Labelle had given him a bulbous nose and a wart on his chin.

“How is changing our faces going to get us inside?” Coco asked, ignoring him.

“We’re too recognizable as we are.” Madame Labelle gestured between me and Beau. “Especially you two.”

“Why him?” Beau asked dubiously.

“He’s almost seven feet tall with red hair,” Madame Labelle said. “And he’s gained a certain notoriety for killing Estelle—as well as sullying their precious princess. The witches will have heard of him.”

Sullying their precious princess. Each word stabbed through my chest, but I forced myself to concentrate. “Men aren’t allowed at the Chateau, so unless you plan on making us all women—”

“Don’t tempt her,” Beau muttered.

Madame Labelle chuckled and patted my elbow. “As fun as that sounds, Reid dear, men are allowed at the Chateau as consorts—especially during festivals such as Modraniht. Every witch in attendance will likely be toting a special someone on her arm. Don’t worry,” she added to Coco. “Many witches prefer female companionship. Truthfully, it’ll be easier to sneak you inside than these brutes.”

“I know. I’m also a witch, in case you’d forgotten.” Coco crossed her arms, skewering Madame Labelle with a glare. “But do you expect us to just waltz up to the front doors and ask if any witches are available for the night?”

“Of course not. There are plenty of available witches traveling through these woods right now.” She pointed through the trees, where a trio of witches had just appeared. Young. Slight. Doll-like features with dark hair and amber skin. Laughing freely—completely unaware of being watched. “But we need to hurry. We aren’t the only hopefuls wandering the mountainside today.”

As if in response, a skinny young man staggered up behind the witches and produced a bouquet of winter greens. The witches giggled—delighted and cruel—before flouncing away.

“Oh dear.” Madame Labelle watched the boy toss the bouquet to the ground. “I almost feel sorry for the poor soul. He’ll need to try harder than that to snare a witch. We have impeccable taste.”

Beau made a noise of outrage. “Then how exactly am I supposed to snare one with the face of a toad?”

“By having devilishly handsome friends, of course.”

Madame Labelle winked, and, faster than I’d believed possible, slipped the Balisarda from my bandolier. She flicked a finger at me when I lunged after her, and a peculiar sensation spread from the center of my face outward—like an egg had been cracked on my nose. Startled, I stopped moving as it slipped over my cheeks. My eyes. My mouth. But as it began to slide down my throat, I charged forward once more, clamping my lips against the magic.

“Almost there,” Madame Labelle said cheerfully, dancing out of reach. The others watched my transformation with rapt attention. Even Beau forgot to look unpleasant.

After coating the tips of my hair, the magic finally vanished. Silence descended, and I expelled the breath I’d been holding. “Well?”

“This is bullshit,” Beau said.

My hair had deepened to black. Stubble grew on my cheeks. Though I couldn’t see the rest of the changes, the angle of the world looked different. As if I’d . . . shrunk. Gritting my teeth, I wrenched my Balisarda back from Madame Labelle, sheathed it, and stomped after the witches.

“Wait, wait!” she cried. I turned reluctantly, and she held out her hand once more. “Give it back.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

She waved her hand, insistent. “You might think those picks of yours were forged in holy water, but I know better. The Sword of Balisarda was made in the same water as Angelica’s Ring.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “In L’Eau Mélancolique. By a witch.”

“No. It was forged by Saint Constantin—”

“It was forged by Saint Constantin’s lover, Angelica,” Madame Labelle said impatiently. “Accept it. Move on.”

My eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

She shrugged. “Magic always leaves a trail. Just because we can’t smell it on your Balisardas or Angelica’s Ring doesn’t mean a clever witch won’t detect it—and Morgane is a clever witch. Do you really want to risk her discovering us?”

My hand gravitated back to my bandolier, and my fingers wrapped around the sapphire hilt by my heart. I savored its smoothness . . . its reassuring weight. Our Balisardas couldn’t be magic. They protected us from magic. But everything else in my godforsaken life had been a lie. Why not this too?

Unsheathing the blade, I scowled up at the sky.

“You’re expecting us to walk into Chateau le Blanc completely unarmed?” Beau asked in disbelief.

“Of course not. Take whatever nonmagical weapons you wish. Just leave the Balisarda at camp.” She smiled sweetly. “We can collect it after we’ve rescued Louise.”

“You’re mad—” He broke off, stunned, as I placed my Balisarda in Madame Labelle’s outstretched hand.

Without another word, I turned and headed after the witches.

They took one look at me and erupted into unintelligible squeals.

“His jaw could cut glass!” one of them trilled. Loudly. As if I weren’t there. No—as if I was nothing but a prized cow, unable to comprehend a word they were saying. I tried not to scowl but failed miserably.

“Oh, look at his eyelashes,” the second sighed. This one had the nerve to reach up and touch my face. I forced myself to remain still. To refrain from snapping its—her—wrist. “Do you have a sister, handsome?”

“He’s mine,” the third said quickly, batting away the second’s hand. “Don’t touch him!”

“I am the eldest,” the first interrupted. “So I get first pick!”

Behind me, Ansel and Beau choked on silent laughter. I longed to knock their heads together, cursing Madame Labelle for pairing them with me.

I adopted as pleasant a voice as I was able. “Mademoiselles, may I introduce my brothers?” I jerked them both forward by the scruffs of their necks, and their grins vanished. “This is Antoine.” I shoved Ansel toward one of them at random. I grabbed Beau next. “And this is Burke.”