“Do you hate me?”

Morgane cackled, clasping her hands together in delight. “Oh, Louise! You aren’t ready to hear the answer to that question, darling. But hear it you shall.” She jabbed her finger into the cut on the Archbishop’s cheek. He cringed away. “Answer her.”

Close enough to watch each emotion flit across his face, I waited for him to speak. I told myself I didn’t care either way, and perhaps I didn’t—for the war raging behind his eyes was also my own. I hated him. I needed him to atone for his heinous crimes—for his hatred, for his evil—yet a small, innate part of me couldn’t wish him harm.

His mouth began to move, but no sound came out. I leaned closer against my better judgment, and his voice rose to a whisper, the cadence of his voice changing as if he was reciting something. A verse. My heart sank.

“‘When thou art come into the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee,’” he breathed, “‘thou shalt not learn to do after the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a . . . or a witch.’”

His eyes rose to mine, shame and regret burning bright behind them. “‘For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord, and because of these abominations, the Lord thy God doth drive them out before thee.’”

A lump lodged in my throat. I swallowed it down, vaguely aware of Morgane cackling again.

Of course I do not love you, Louise. You are the daughter of my enemy. You were conceived for a higher purpose, and I will not poison that purpose with love.

Abomination. The Lord thy God doth drive you out before me.

You are not my wife.

“‘But,’” the Archbishop continued, his voice hardening with resolve, “‘if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.’”

A tear escaped down my cheek. Upon seeing it, Morgane laughed louder. “How touching. It seems the whole lot of them are infidels, doesn’t it, Louise? First your husband, now your father. Neither have provided you anything but heartache. Where is this tolerance of which you spoke?”

She paused, clearly waiting for one of us to respond. When we didn’t, she rose to her feet, smile slipping in disappointment. “I’m surprised at you, Louise. I expected more of a fight.”

“I will not beg for his affection, nor his life.”

She scoffed. “Not his—I meant your precious huntsman’s.”

I frowned at her. Something vaguely urgent knocked at the back of my skull. Something I was missing. Some crucial bit of information I couldn’t quite remember. “I . . . I didn’t expect him to come after me, if that’s what you mean.”

Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “It’s not.”

The vague something knocked harder, insistent. “Then what—?”

The blood drained from my face. Reid.

Morgane’s forgotten words drifted back to me through the heavy fog of my mind. Amidst my heartache—amidst my rage and hopelessness and despair—I hadn’t stopped to consider their meaning.

The Lyons will rue the day they stole this land. Their people will writhe and thrash on the stake, and the king and his children will choke on your blood. Your husband will choke on your blood.

But that meant—

“I know I promised you the chance to light his pyre.” Morgane’s croon scattered the thread of my thoughts. “But I’m afraid you won’t get the chance, after all. The king’s blood runs in your huntsman’s veins.”

No. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, but quickly reopened them as the darkness beyond my lids began spinning. Through sheer willpower—no, through sheer desperation—I forced my useless limbs into action. They twitched and spasmed in protest as I toppled, falling toward Morgane’s outstretched hands, toward the promise of Angelica’s Ring—

She caught me against her chest in a sick embrace. “Fret not, darling. You’ll see him again soon.”

At a wave of her hand, everything went dark.

Consorting With the Enemy

Reid

Madame Labelle pointed above our heads midafternoon. “Chateau le Blanc is there.” We followed her finger to the mountain towering in the distance, perhaps two hours away. “We should arrive in time for the feast.”

We had to take her word for it. No one else could see anything but trees. When Beau grumbled as much, Madame Labelle shrugged and sank gracefully onto her stump, folding her hands in her lap. “’Tis the magic of the Chateau, I’m afraid. None but a Dame Blanche can see it until we cross through the enchantment.” At Beau’s puzzled look, she added, “The bridge, of course.”

Beau opened his mouth to reply, but I stopped listening, drifting to the edge of our hidden camp. In the forest, the faint smell of magic touched everything. But it burned less sharp here, somehow, mingled with the salt and trees. As if it belonged. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Waves crashed in the distance. Though I’d never set foot in this place, it felt familiar . . . like Lou.

Her essence infused everything—the sunlight filtering through the pines, the creek trickling beside us despite the cold. Even the wind seemed to dance. It swirled her scent around me, soothing my frazzled nerves like a balm.

There you are, it seemed to say. I didn’t think you’d come.

I promised to love and protect you.

And I promised to love and obey you. We’re both such pretty liars . . .

I opened my eyes, chest aching, to see Coco standing beside me. She stared out into the trees as if she too were holding a silent conversation.

“I can feel her here.” She shook her head. Wistful. “I’ve known her since childhood, yet . . . sometimes . . . I wonder if I really know her at all.”

I blinked in surprise. “You and Lou knew each other as children?”

Her eyes flicked to mine, searching my face as if considering how to answer. Finally, she sighed and turned back to the trees. “We met when we were six. I’d . . . wandered away from my coven. My aunt and I—we didn’t get along much, and she’d . . . well—” She stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. Lou found me. She tried to make me laugh, braided flowers in my hair to make me feel better. When I finally stopped crying, she tossed a mud pie in my face.” She flashed a grin, but it quickly faded. “We kept our friendship a secret. I didn’t even tell my aunt. She wouldn’t have approved. She loathes Morgane and the Dames Blanches.”