Though the words were mild, I heard the disappointment behind them. Shame reared and crashed within me once more. I ducked my head. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

He heaved a great sigh. “Fret not, son. Wicked are the ways of women—and especially a witch. Their guile knows no bounds.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I’ve never seen such magic before. The witch—it was a hag, but it . . . changed.” I stared down at my fists again. Determined to get the words out. “It changed into a beautiful woman.” I took a deep breath and looked up, jaw clenched. “A beautiful woman with child.”

His lip curled. “The Mother.”

“Sir?”

He rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind him, and began to pace. “Have you forgotten the sacrilegious teachings of the witches, Reid?”

I shook my head curtly, ears burning, and remembered the stern deacons of my childhood. The sparse classroom by the sanctuary. The faded Bible in my hands.

Witches do not worship our Lord and Savior, nor do they acknowledge the holy trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They glorify another trinity—an idolatrous trinity. The Triple Goddess.

Even if I hadn’t grown up in the Church, every Chasseur learned the witches’ evil ideology before taking his vows.

“Maiden, Mother, and Crone,” I murmured.

He nodded approvingly, and warm satisfaction spread through me. “An embodiment of femininity in the cycle of birth, life, and death . . . among other things. ’Tis blasphemous, of course.” He scoffed and shook his head. “As if God could be a woman.”

I frowned, avoiding his eyes. “Of course, sir.”

“The witches believe their queen, La Dame des Sorcières, has been blessed by the goddess. They believe she—it—can shift into the forms of the trinity at will.” He paused, mouth tightening as he looked at me. “Today, I believe you encountered La Dame des Sorcières herself.”

I gaped at him. “Morgane le Blanc?”

He nodded curtly. “The very same.”

“But, sir—”

“It explains the temptation. Your inability to control your basest nature. La Dame des Sorcières is incredibly powerful, Reid, particularly in that form. The witches claim the Mother represents fertility, fulfillment, and . . . sexuality.” His face twisted in disgust, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. “A lesser man than you would have succumbed.”

But I wanted to. My face burned hot enough to cause physical pain as silence descended between us. Footsteps sounded, and the Archbishop’s hand came down on my shoulder. “Cast this from your mind, lest the creature poison your thoughts and corrupt your spirit.”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to look at him. “I will not fail you again, sir.”

“I know.” No hesitation. No uncertainty. Relief swelled in my chest. “This life we have chosen—the life of self-restraint, of temperance—it is not without difficulties.” He squeezed my shoulder. “We are human. From the dawn of time, this has been men’s plight—to be tempted by women. Even within the perfection of the Garden of Eden, Eve seduced Adam into sin.”

When I said nothing, he released my shoulder and sighed. Weary, now. “Take this matter to the Lord, Reid. Confess, and He will absolve you. And if . . . in time . . . you cannot overcome this affliction, perhaps we should procure you a wife.”

His words struck my pride—my honor—like a blow. Anger coursed through me. Hard. Fast. Sickening. Only a handful of my brethren had taken wives since the king had commissioned our holy order, and most had eventually forsaken their positions and left the Church.

Still . . . there had once been a time I’d considered it. Yearned for it, even. But no longer.

“That won’t be necessary, sir.”

As if sensing my thoughts, the Archbishop continued warily. “I needn’t remind you of your previous transgressions, Reid. You know very well the Church cannot force any man to vow celibacy—not even a Chasseur. As Peter said, ‘If they cannot control themselves, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn with passion.’ If it is your wish to marry, neither your brothers nor I can stop you.” He paused, watching me closely. “Perhaps the young Mademoiselle Tremblay will still have you?”

Célie’s face flared briefly in my mind at his words. Delicate. Beautiful. Her green eyes filled with tears. They’d soaked the black fabric of her mourning gown.

You cannot give me your heart, Reid. I cannot have it on my conscience.

Célie, please—

Those monsters who murdered Pip are still out there. They must be punished. I will not distract you from your purpose. If you must give away your heart, give it to your brotherhood. Please, please, forget me.

I could never forget you.

You must.

I shoved the memory away before it consumed me.

No. I would never marry. After the death of her sister, Célie had made that very clear.

“‘But I say therefore to the unmarried and widows,’” I finished, my voice low and even, “‘it is good for them if they abide even as I.’” I stared intently at my fists in my lap, still mourning a future—a family—I’d never see. “Please, sir . . . do not think I would ever risk my future within the Chasseurs by entering into matrimony. I wish nothing more than to please God . . . and you.”

I glanced up at him then, and he offered me a grim smile. “Your devotion to the Lord pleases me. Now, fetch my carriage. I’m due at the castle for the prince’s ball. Folly, if you ask me, but Auguste does spoil his son—”

A tentative knock on the door halted the rest of his words. His smile vanished at the sound, and he nodded once, dismissing me. I stood as he strode around his desk. “Come in.”

A young, gangly initiate entered. Ansel. Sixteen. Orphaned as a baby, like me. I’d known him only briefly throughout childhood, though we’d both been raised in the Church. He’d been too young to keep company with me and Jean Luc.

He bowed, his right fist covering his heart. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Eminence.” His throat bobbed as he extended a letter. “But you have a correspondence. A woman just came to the door. She believes a witch will be in West End tonight, sir, near Brindelle Park.”