She opened her mouth angrily. Closed it again. “I— This is— I am not sleeping in the—” Her eyes darted around the bed, clearly searching for something to impale me with. They landed on a pillow.

Whack.

I caught it before she could hit me again, trapping it against my chest. Clamping my lips together to keep from laughing. “Lou—lie down. Go to sleep. Nothing has changed. Unless you want to ask me something?”

“Don’t hold your breath.” She yanked the pillow from me. “Actually—do.”

I chuckled before turning away. “Good night, Lou.”

She fell asleep long before I did.

Blood, Water, and Smoke

Lou

I woke the next morning with my face buried against Reid’s chest. His arms draped across my ribs, and his hands rested on my lower back. I arched into him sleepily, savoring the sensation of his skin against my own—then froze. My nightgown had pooled around my waist in the night, and my legs and belly were bare against him.

Shit, shit, shit.

I scrambled to pull down my nightgown, but he jerked awake at the movement. Instantly alert, he swept his eyes from my panicked expression to the empty room. The corner of his lips quirked, and a blush crept up his throat. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” I shoved away from him, my own cheeks treacherously warm. He grinned wider and grabbed his shirt from the floor before heading to the washroom. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“To train.”

“But—but it’s Saint Nicolas Day. We have to celebrate.”

He poked his head back out with a bemused expression. “Oh?”

“Oh,” I affirmed, sliding out of bed to join him. He stepped aside as I passed, though his hand snaked out to catch a strand of my hair. “We’re going to the festival.”

“We are?”

“Yes. The food is amazing. There are these ginger macarons—” I broke off, mouth already watering, and shook my head. “I can’t describe them properly. They must be experienced. Plus I need to buy you a present.”

He dropped my hair reluctantly and moved to the cabinet. “You don’t need to buy me anything, Lou.”

“Nonsense. I love buying presents almost as much as I love receiving them.”

An hour later, we strolled arm in arm through East End.

Though I’d attended the festival last year, I hadn’t been interested in decorating the evergreen trees with fruit and candy, or adding a log to the bonfire in the village center. No, I’d been much more invested in the dice games and stalls of cheap trinkets—and the food, of course.

The spice of cinnamon treats wafted through the air now, mingling with the ever-present stench of fish and smoke. I eyed the cart of cookies closest to us longingly. Sables, madeleines, and palmiers stared back at me. When I reached out to lift one—or three—Reid rolled his eyes and tugged me onward. My stomach gave an indignant growl.

“How can you still be hungry?” he asked, incredulous. “You ate three helpings at breakfast this morning.”

I made a face. “That was tuna. I have a second stomach for dessert.”

The streets bustled with revelers bundled in coats and scarves, and a light coating of snow dusted everything—the shops, the stalls, the carriages, the street. Wreaths with red bows hung from nearly every door. The wind caught at the ribbons and made the tails dance.

For Cesarine, it was beautiful.

The gauche flyers tacked to every building, however, were not:

YE OLDE SISTERS

TRAVELING COMPANY

invites you to honor our patriarch

HIS EMINENCE, FLORIN CARDINAL CLéMENT,

ARCHBISHOP OF BELTERRA

by attending the performance of the century tomorrow morning,

the seventh day of December

at Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine.

Joyeux No?l!

I thrust a flyer under Reid’s nose, laughing. “Florin? What a terrible name! No wonder he never uses it.”

He frowned at me. “Florin is my middle name.”

I crumpled it up and tossed it in a bin. “A true tragedy.” When he tried to lead me away, I slipped my arm from his, raising the hood of my cloak. “All right, time to split up.”

Still frowning, he scanned the crowded square. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can trust me. I won’t run away. Besides, presents are supposed to be a surprise.”

“Lou—”

“We’ll meet up at Pan’s in an hour. Do get me something good.”

Ignoring his protests, I turned and wove through the shoppers toward the smithy at the end of the street. The blacksmith there, Abe, had always been friendly with East End’s underbelly. I’d purchased many knives from him—and stolen one or two more. Before Tremblay’s, Abe had shown me a beautiful copper-handled dagger. It matched Reid’s hair perfectly. I hoped he hadn’t sold it.

Pushing back my hood and mustering up a touch of my old swagger, I strode into the smithy. Embers smoldered in the forge, but beyond a barrel of water and bag of sand, there was nothing else in the earthen room. No swords. No knives. No customers. I frowned. The blacksmith was nowhere to be seen. “Abe? Are you here?”

A thickset, bearded man stepped through the side entrance, and I grinned. “There you are, old man! I thought you’d gone negligent for a moment.” My smile faltered at his furious scowl, and I glanced around. “Business booming?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here, Lou.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Rumor has it you sold out Andre and Grue. East End is crawling with constables thanks to you.” He took a step forward, fists clenched. “They’ve been here twice, asking questions they shouldn’t have known to ask. My customers are leery. No one wants to do business with the constabulary sniffing around.”

Yikes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told the Chasseurs everything, after all.

I withdrew a pouch from my cloak with a flourish. “Ah, but I’ve brought an olive branch. See?” I shook the bag, and the coins inside clinked together in a jaunty tune. His dark eyes remained suspicious.

“How much?”

I tossed the pouch in the air with deliberate nonchalance. “Enough to purchase a beautiful copper dagger. A present for my husband.”