“You,” he said.

Before I could move, he pounced. His hands gripped my arms—vise-like—and he flung me around, positioning himself in front of the exit. I knew immediately that no amount of struggling would free me. He was simply too strong. Too big. There was only one way forward.

I smashed my knee straight into his groin.

He doubled over with a groan, grip loosening.

Tearing free—and throwing my hat at his face for good measure—I darted into the depths of the theater. There was another exit backstage. Crew members gaped as I sprinted past, knocking down crates and other props behind me as I went. When he caught the edge of my cloak, I ripped the fastening at my throat free, never faltering a step. It didn’t matter. The Chasseur still pounded after me, his strides nearly thrice my own—

He latched on to my wrist as I spotted the hook-nosed girl from before. Though I thrashed away from him—my spectacles clattering to the floor as I struggled toward her—he only tightened his hold. Tears streamed down my ruined face. “Please, help me!”

The hook-nosed girl’s eyes widened. “Let her go!”

The voices onstage faltered at her shout, and we all froze.

Shit. No, no, no.

Taking advantage of his hesitation, I twisted to break free, but his hand inadvertently met my breast. He loosened his grip, clearly appalled, but lunged as I pulled away, his fingers catching my neckline. Horrified, I watched in slow motion as the delicate fabric tore, as his feet tangled in my skirt. As we clutched one another, trying and failing to regain our balance.

As we tumbled through the curtain and onto the stage.

The audience gave a collective gasp—then fell silent. No one dared breathe. Not even me.

The Chasseur, who still held me atop him from our fall, stared up at me with wide eyes. I watched—numb—as dozens of emotions flitted across his face. Shock. Panic. Humiliation. Rage.

The hook-nosed girl skidded out after us, and the spell was broken. “You disgusting pig!”

The Chasseur flung me away like I’d bitten him, and I landed on my backside. Hard. Angry cries from the audience erupted as my dress gaped open. They took in my bruised face, my torn bodice, and made their own assumptions. But I didn’t care. Staring out at the audience, horror seeped through me as I imagined who could be staring back. The blood left my face.

The hook-nosed girl wrapped her arms around me, gently helping me to my feet and leading me backstage. Two burly crew members appeared and seized the Chasseur as well. The crowd shouted their approval as they frog-marched him behind us. I glanced back, surprised he wasn’t putting up a fight, but his face was as white as my own.

The girl grabbed a sheet from one of the crates and draped it around me. “Are you all right?”

I ignored her ridiculous question. Of course I wasn’t all right. What had just happened?

“Hopefully they throw him in prison.” She glared at the Chasseur, who stood amidst the crew in a daze. The audience still shouted their outrage.

“They won’t,” I said grimly. “He’s a Chasseur.”

“We’ll all give our statements.” She stuck her chin out and gestured to the crew. They hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do. “We saw the whole thing. You’re so lucky you were here.” She glanced at my torn dress, eyes flashing. “Who knows what could have happened?”

I didn’t correct her. I needed to leave. This whole fiasco had been a shoddy attempt at escape, and this was my last chance. The Chasseur couldn’t stop me now, but the constabulary would arrive soon. They wouldn’t care what the audience thought they’d seen. They’d cart me off to prison, regardless of my torn dress and bruises, and it would be all too easy for the Chasseurs to procure me once this mess had been sorted out.

I knew where that would lead. A stake and a match.

I’d just decided to throw caution to the winds and run for it—perhaps slip Angelica’s Ring between my teeth once I reached the stairwell—when the door to stage right creaked open.

My heart stopped as the Archbishop stepped through.

He was shorter than I thought, though still taller than me, with salt-and-pepper hair and steely blue eyes. They flared briefly as he took me in—the bruised face, the ratted hair, the sheet draped around my shoulders—then narrowed at the devastation around me. His lip curled.

He jerked his head toward the exit. “Leave us.”

The crew didn’t need to be told twice—and neither did I. I nearly tripped over my feet in an effort to vacate the premises as quickly as possible. The Chasseur’s hand snaked out and caught my arm.

“Not you,” the Archbishop commanded.

The hook-nosed girl hesitated, her eyes darting between the three of us. One look from the Archbishop, however, had her scurrying out the door.

The Chasseur released me the second she disappeared and bowed to the Archbishop, covering his heart with his fist. “This is the woman from Tremblay’s townhouse, Your Eminence.”

The Archbishop nodded curtly, his eyes returning to mine. Again they searched my face, and again they hardened—as if my worth had been tallied and found lacking. He clasped stiff hands behind his back. “So you are our escaped thief.”

I nodded, not daring to breathe. He’d said thief. Not witch.

“You have put us all in quite the predicament, my dear.”

“I—”

“Silence.”

My mouth snapped shut. I wasn’t stupid enough to argue with the Archbishop. If anyone dwelled above the law, it was him.

He walked toward me slowly, hands still clasped behind his back. “You’re a clever thief, aren’t you? Quite talented in eluding capture. How did you escape the rooftop last night? Captain Diggory assures me the townhouse was surrounded.”

I swallowed hard. There was that word again. Thief—not witch. Hope fluttered in my stomach. I glanced at the copper-haired Chasseur, but his face revealed nothing.

“My . . . my friend helped me,” I lied.

He raised a brow. “Your friend, the witch.”

Dread snaked down my spine. But Coco was miles away now—safe and hidden within La Forêt des Yeux. The Forest of Eyes. The Chasseurs would never be able to track her there. Even if they did, her coven would protect her.

I maintained careful eye contact, careful not to twitch or fidget or otherwise give myself away. “She is a witch, yes.”