My tongue was thick and heavy from talking when my darling husband escorted me back to our room. I’d given them an abbreviated version of the tale—how Coco and I had eavesdropped on Tremblay and Madame Labelle, how we’d planned to rob him that night. How we’d stolen from his vault, but Bas—I hadn’t bothered concealing his name, as the idiot hadn’t bothered concealing mine—had pocketed everything when the Chasseurs arrived. How Andre and Grue had jumped me in that alley. How they’d almost killed me.
I’d really emphasized that point.
I hadn’t mentioned Angelica’s Ring. Or Madame Labelle’s interest in it. Or Tremblay’s trafficking. Or anything that might further connect me to the witches. I walked a thin line as it was, and I didn’t need to give them another reason to tie me to the stake.
I knew Madame Labelle and Tremblay wouldn’t risk incriminating themselves by mentioning the ring. I hoped Andre and Grue were intelligent enough to follow suit. Even if they didn’t—even if they stupidly revealed they’d known about Angelica’s Ring without reporting it—it would be our word against theirs. The honor of Monsieur Tremblay, the king’s vicomte, was surely worth more than the honor of a couple of criminals.
It also didn’t hurt that my husband was in love with his daughter.
Either way—judging by the furious gleam in said husband’s eyes—Andre and Grue were in for a thrashing.
You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.
I almost cackled. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad afternoon. My husband was still the most pompous ass in an entire tower of pompous asses, but somehow, that had been easy to overlook in the dungeon. He’d actually . . . defended me. Or at least come as close as he was capable without his virtue imploding.
When we reached our room, I headed straight for the tub, craving time alone to think. To plan. “I’m taking a bath.”
If my suspicions were correct—and they usually were—the tree man from yesterday had disappeared to the forbidden upper floors. Perhaps to an infirmary? A laboratory? A furnace?
No. The Chasseurs would never murder innocent people, though burning innocent women and children at the stake seemed like it should qualify. But I’d heard the Chasseurs’ tired argument: there was a difference between murdering and killing. Murder was unjustified. What they did to the witches . . . well, we deserved it.
I turned on the tap and perched on the edge of the tub. Bigotry aside, I’d never considered where the witches’ victims actually went, why there weren’t bodies littering the streets after every attack. All those attacks. All those victims . . .
If such a place existed, it was surely doused in magic.
Just the sort of cover I needed.
“Wait.” His heavy footsteps halted just behind me. “We have things to discuss.”
Things. The word had never sounded so tedious. I didn’t turn around. “Such as?”
“Your new arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” Now I did turn, stomach sinking. “You mean my new warden.”
He inclined his head. “If you’d like. You disobeyed me this morning. I told you not to leave the Tower.”
Shit. Being watched . . . that didn’t work for me. Didn’t work for me at all. I had plans for this evening—namely, a little jaunt to the forbidden upper floors—and I’d be damned if another pompous ass would stand in my way. If I was right, if the Tower held magic, it was a visit I needed to make alone.
I took my time mulling over an answer, meticulously unlacing my boots and placing them beside the washroom door. Tying my hair on top of my head. Unwrapping the dressing on my arm.
He waited patiently for me to finish. Damn him. Exhausting all my options, I finally turned around. Perhaps I could . . . deter him. Surely he didn’t want his new bride to spend ungodly amounts of time with another man? I labored under no delusions he liked me, but men of the Church tended to be possessive of their things.
“Go ahead, then.” I smiled pleasantly. “Bring him in. For your sake, he’d better be handsome.”
His eyes hardened, and he walked around me to turn off the tap. “Why would he need to be handsome?”
I strolled to the bed and fell back, rolling to my stomach and propping a pillow beneath my chin. I batted my lashes at him. “Well, we are going to be spending quite a bit of time together . . . unchaperoned.”
He clenched his jaw so tight it looked likely to snap in two. “He is your chaperone.”
“Right, right.” I waved a hand. “Do continue.”
“His name is Ansel. He’s sixteen—”
“Oooh.” I waggled my brows, grinning. “A bit young, isn’t he?”
“He’s perfectly capable—”
“I like them young, though.” I ignored his flushing face and tapped my lip thoughtfully. “Easier to train that way.”
“—and he shows great promise as a potential—”
“Perhaps I’ll give him his first kiss,” I mused. “No, I’ll do him one better—I’ll give him his first fuck.”
My articulate husband choked on the rest of his words, eyes boggling. “Wh—what did you just say?”
Hearing impairment. It was getting alarming.
“Oh, don’t be so priggish, Chass.” I leapt up and crossed the room, flinging the desk drawer open and snatching the leather notebook I’d found—a journal, stuffed full of love letters from none other than Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay. I snorted at the irony. No wonder he loathed me. “‘February twelfth—God took special care in forming Célie.’”
His eyes grew impossibly wider, and he lunged for the journal. I dodged—cackling—and ran into the washroom, locking the door behind me. His fists pounded against the wood. “Give me that!”
I grinned and continued reading. “‘I long to look upon her face again. Surely there is nothing more beautiful in all the world than her smile—except, of course, her eyes. Or her laugh. Or her lips.’ My, my, Chass. Surely thinking of a woman’s mouth is impious? What would our dear Archbishop say?”
“Open—this—door.” The wood strained as he pounded against it. “Right now!”
“‘But I fear I’m being selfish. Célie has made it clear that my purpose is with my brotherhood.’”
“OPEN THIS DOOR—”
“‘Though I admire her selflessness, I cannot bring myself to agree with her. Any solution that separates us is not a solution at all.’”
“I’M WARNING YOU—”
“You’re warning me? What are you going to do? Break down the door?” I laughed harder. “Actually, do it. I dare you.” Turning my attention back to his journal, I continued to read. ‘I must confess, she still haunts my thoughts. Days and nights blur together as one, and I struggle to focus on anything but her memory. My training suffers. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. There is only her.’ Good God, Chass, this is getting depressing. Romantic, of course, but still a little melodramatic for my taste—”
Something heavy crashed into the door, and the wood splintered. My livid husband’s arm smashed through—again and again—until a sizeable hole revealed his brilliant crimson face. I laughed, chucking the journal through the splinters before he could reach my neck. It bounced off his nose and skidded across the floor.
If he hadn’t been so obnoxiously virtuous, I think he would’ve sworn. After reaching an arm through to unlock the door, he scrambled inside to collect the journal.
“Take it.” I nearly cracked a rib from trying not to laugh. “I’ve already read enough. Quite touching stuff, really. If possible, her letters were even worse.”
He snarled and advanced on me. “You—you read my personal—my private—”
“How else could I get to know you?” I asked sweetly, dancing around the tub as he approached. His nostrils flared, and he looked closer to breathing fire than anyone I’d ever known. And I’d known quite a few dragonesque characters.
“You—you—”
Words seemed to be failing him. I braced myself, waiting for the inevitable.
“—you devil.”
And there it was. The worst someone like my upstanding husband could invent. The devil. I failed to hide my grin.
“See? You’ve gotten to know me all by yourself.” I winked at him as we circled the tub. “You’re much cleverer than you look.” I tilted my head, pursing my lips in consideration. “Though you were stupid enough to leave your most intimate correspondences lying around for anyone to read—and you keep a journal. Perhaps you aren’t so clever after all.”
He glared at me, chest heaving with each breath. After a few more seconds, his eyes closed. I watched in fascination as his lips subconsciously formed the words one, two, three . . .
Oh my god.
I couldn’t help it. Truly, I couldn’t. I burst out laughing.
His eyes snapped open, and he gripped the journal so hard he nearly tore it in half. Spinning on his heel, he stormed back into the bedroom. “Ansel will be here any moment. He’ll fix the door.”
“Wait—what?” My laughter ceased abruptly, and I hurried after him, careful of the splintered wood. “You still want to leave me with a guard? I’ll corrupt him!”
He grabbed his coat and stuffed his arms inside. “I told you,” he snarled. “You broke trust. I can’t watch you all the time. Ansel will do it for me.” Jerking open the door to the corridor, he shouted, “Ansel!”
Within seconds, a young Chasseur poked his head in. Wildly curly brown hair fell in his eyes, and his body had the appearance of being stretched somehow, like he’d grown too much in too little time. Beyond his gangly frame, however, he was actually quite handsome—almost androgynous with his smooth olive skin and long, curling eyelashes. Curiously, he wore a coat of pale blue rather than the deep royal blue typical of Chasseurs. “Yes, Captain?”
“You’re on guard duty now.” My infuriating husband’s gaze was knifelike as he looked back at me. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Ansel’s eyes turned pleading. “But what about the interrogations?”
“You’re needed here.” His words held no room for argument. I almost felt sorry for the boy—or I would have, if his presence hadn’t foiled my entire evening. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t listen to a word she says, and make sure she stays put.”
We watched him close the door in sullen silence.
Right. This was fine. I was nothing if not adaptable. Sinking back onto the bed, I groaned theatrically and muttered, “This should be fun.”
At my words, Ansel straightened his shoulders. “Don’t talk to me.”
I snorted. “This is going to be quite boring if I’m not allowed to talk.”
“Well, you’re not, so . . . stop.”
Charming.
Silence descended between us. I kicked my feet against the bed frame. He looked anywhere but at me. After a few long moments, I asked, “Is there anything to do here?”
His mouth thinned. “I said stop talking.”
“Maybe a library?”
“Stop talking!”
“I’d love to go outside. Bit of fresh air, bit of sunshine.” I motioned to his pretty skin. “You might want to wear a hat though.”
“As if I’d take you outside,” he sneered. “I’m not stupid, you know.”
I sat up earnestly. “And neither am I. Look, I know I could never get past you. You’re much too, er, tall. Great long legs like yours would run me down in an instant.” He frowned, but I flashed him a winning smile. “If you don’t want to take me outside, why don’t you give me a tour of the Tower instead—”
But he was already shaking his head. “Reid told me you were tricky.”
“Asking for a tour is hardly tricky, Ansel—”
“No,” he said firmly. “We’re not going anywhere. And you will address me as Initiate Diggory.”
My grin vanished. “Are we long-lost cousins, then?”
His brows furrowed. “No.”
“You just said your surname is Diggory. That’s also my unfortunate husband’s surname. Are the two of you related?”
“No.” He looked away quickly to stare at his boots. “That’s the surname all the unwanted children are given.”
“Unwanted?” I asked, curious despite myself.
He scowled at me. “Orphans.”
For some unfathomable reason, my chest constricted. “Oh.” I paused in search of the right words, but found none—none except . . . “Would it help if I told you I don’t have the best relationship with my own mother?”
His scowl only deepened. “At least you have a mother.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do.” Truer words had never been spoken. Every day of the last two years—every moment, every second—I’d wished her away. Wished I’d been born someone else. Anyone else. I offered him a small smile. “I’d trade places with you in an instant, Ansel—just the parentage, not the dreadful outfit. That shade of blue really isn’t my color.”
He straightened his coat defensively. “I told you to stop talking.”
I fell back on the bed in resignation. Now that I’d heard his confession, the next part of my plan—the, uh, guileful part—left a sour taste in my mouth. But it didn’t matter.
To Ansel’s annoyance, I began to hum.
“No humming either.”
I ignored him. “‘Big Titty Liddy was not very pretty, but her bosom was big as a barn,’” I sang. “‘Her creamery knockers drove men off their rockers, but she was blind to their charms—’”
“Stop!” His face burned so vivid a scarlet it rivaled my husband’s. “What are you doing? That—that’s indecent!”
“Of course it is. It’s a pub song!”
“You’ve been in a pub?” he asked, flabbergasted. “But you’re a woman.”
It took every drop of my willpower not to roll my eyes. Whoever had taught these men about women had been heinously out of touch with reality. It was almost as if they’d never met a woman. A real woman—not a ludicrous pipe dream like Célie.
I had a duty to this poor boy.
“There are lots of women in pubs, Ansel. We aren’t like you think. We can do anything you can do—and probably better. There’s a whole world outside this church, you know. I could show you, if you wanted.”
His expression hardened, though pink still bloomed in his cheeks. “No. No more talking. No more humming. No more singing. Just—just stop being you for a little while, eh?”
“I can’t make any promises,” I said seriously. “But if you gave me a tour . . .”
“Not happening.”
Fine.
“‘Big Willy Billy talked sort of silly,’” I bellowed, “‘but his knob was long as his—’”
“Stop, STOP.” Ansel waved his hands, cheeks flaming anew. “I’ll take you on a tour—just, please, please stop singing about . . . that!”
I rose to my feet, clasping my hands together and beaming.
Voilà.
Unfortunately, Ansel started our tour with the vast halls of Saint-Cécile. More unfortunate—he knew an absurd amount about each architectural feature of the cathedral, as well as the history of each relic and effigy and stained-glass window. After listening to his intellectual prowess for the first fifteen minutes, I’d been mildly impressed. The boy was clearly intelligent. After listening to him for the next four hours, however, I’d longed to shatter the monstrance over his head. It’d been a reprieve when he’d concluded the tour for dinner, promising to continue tomorrow.
But he’d almost looked . . . hopeful. As if at some point during our tour, he’d started enjoying himself. As if he weren’t used to having anyone’s undivided attention, or perhaps having anyone listen to him at all. That hope in his doe-like eyes had quashed my urge to inflict bodily harm.
I couldn’t, however, be distracted from my purpose.
When Ansel knocked on my door the next morning, my husband left us without a word, disappearing to wherever it was he went during the day. After the rest of my wardrobe had been delivered, we’d suffered a tense, silent evening together before I’d retired to the bathtub. His journal—and Célie’s letters—had both mysteriously disappeared.
Ansel turned to me hesitantly. “Do you still want to finish your tour?”
“About that.” I squared my shoulders, determined not to waste another day learning about a bone that might once have belonged to Saint Constantin. “As thrilling as our excursion was yesterday, I want to see the Tower.”
“The Tower?” He blinked in confusion. “But there’s nothing here you haven’t already seen. The dormitories, dungeon, commissary—”
“Nonsense. I’m sure I haven’t seen everything.”
Ignoring his frown, I pushed him out the door before he could protest.
It took another hour—after feigning interest in the Tower’s stables, training yard, and twenty-three cleaning closets—before I finally managed to drag Ansel back to the metal spiral staircase.
“What’s up there?” I asked, planting my feet when he tried to lead me back to the dormitories.
“Nothing,” he said swiftly.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He tugged on my arm harder. “You’re not allowed up there.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not.”
“Ansel.” I stuck out my lip, wrapping my arms around his skinny bicep and batting my lashes. “I’ll behave. I promise.”
He glowered at me. “I don’t believe you.”
I dropped his arm and frowned. I had not just wasted the past hour waltzing about the Tower with a pubescent boy—however adorable he might be—to trip at the finish line. “Fine. Then you leave me no choice.”
He eyed me warily. “What are you—”
He broke off as I turned and dashed up the staircase. Though he was taller, I’d guessed correctly: he wasn’t yet used to his gangling height, and his limbs were a mess of awkwardness. He stumbled after me, but it wasn’t much of a chase. I’d already raced up several flights before he’d worked out how to use his legs.
Skidding slightly at the top, I peered in dismay at the Chasseur sitting guard outside the door—no, sleeping outside the door. Propped up in a rickety chair, he snored softly, his chin drooping to his chest and drool dampening his pale blue coat. I darted around him to the door, heart leaping when the handle turned. More doors lined the walls of the corridor beyond at regular intervals, but they weren’t what made me lurch to a halt.
No. It was the air. It swirled around me, tickling my nose. Sweet and familiar . . . with just a hint of something darker lurking underneath. Something rotten.
You’re here you’re here you’re here, it breathed.
I grinned. Magic.
But my grin quickly faltered. If I’d thought the dormitories were cold, I’d been wrong. This place was worse. Much worse. Almost . . . forbidding. The sweetened air unnaturally still.
Two sets of clumsy footsteps broke the eerie silence.
“Stop!” Ansel tumbled through the door after me, lost his footing, and crashed into my back. The guard outside the door—finally awake, and much younger than I’d first assumed—followed suit. We fell in a whirl of curses and tangled bodies.
“Get off, Ansel—”
“I’m trying—”
“Who are you? You aren’t supposed to be up here—”
“Excuse me!” We looked up as one toward the tinny voice. It belonged to a frail, teetering old man in white robes and thick spectacles. He held a Bible in one hand and a curious device in the other: small and metal, with a sharp quill at the end of a cylinder.
Shoving them both away and climbing to my feet, I searched frantically for something to say, for some reasonable explanation as to why we were wrestling in the middle of . . . whatever this was, but the guard beat me to it.
“I’m sorry, Your Reverence.” The boy shot us each a resentful look. His collar had creased his cheek during his nap, and a bit of drool had dried on his chin. “I have no idea who this girl is. Ansel let her in here.”
“I did not!” Ansel colored indignantly, still out of breath. “You were asleep!”
“Oh, dear.” The old man pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose to squint at us. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”
Throwing caution to the winds, I opened my mouth to explain, but a smooth, familiar voice interrupted.
“They’re here to see me, Father.”
I froze, surprise jolting through me. I knew that voice. I knew it better than my own. But it shouldn’t have been here—in the heart of Chasseur Tower—when it was supposed to be hundreds of miles away.
Dark, devious eyes settled on me. “Hello, Louise.”
I grinned in response, shaking my head in disbelief. Coco.
“This is highly unusual, Mademoiselle Perrot,” the priest wheezed, frowning. “Private citizens are not allowed in the infirmary without advance notice.”
Coco motioned me forward. “But Louise isn’t a private citizen, Father Orville. She’s Captain Reid Diggory’s wife.”
She turned back to the guard, who stood gaping at her. Ansel wore a similar expression, his eyes comically wide and his jaw hanging open. Dumbfounded. I resisted the urge to stuff his tongue back in his mouth. It wasn’t as if they could even see her figure beneath her enormous white robe. Indeed, the starched fabric of her neckline rose to just below her chin, and her sleeves draped almost to the tips of her fingers, where white gloves concealed the rest. An inconvenient uniform if I’d ever seen one—but a most convenient disguise.
“As you can see,” she continued, skewering the guard with a pointed look, “your presence is no longer required. Might I suggest resuming your post? We wouldn’t want the Chasseurs to learn about this horrible miscommunication, would we?”
The guard didn’t need to be told twice. He hastened back out the door, stopping only when he’d crossed the threshold. “Just—just make sure she signs the register.” Then he closed the door with a rather relieved click.
“Captain Reid Diggory, you say?” The priest stepped closer, tipping his head back to examine me through his spectacles. They magnified his eyes to an alarming size. “Oho, I’ve heard all about Reid Diggory and his new bride. You should be ashamed of yourself, madame. Tricking a holy man into matrimony! It’s ungodly—”
“Father.” Coco placed a hand on his arm and fixed him with a steely smile. “Louise is here to help me today . . . as penance.”
“Penance?”
“Oh, yes,” I added, catching on and nodding enthusiastically. Ansel stared between us with a bewildered expression. I stomped on his foot. Father Orville didn’t even blink, the blind old bat. “You must allow me to atone for my sins, Father. I feel absolutely wretched about my behavior, and I’ve prayed long and hard about how best to punish myself.”
I slipped the last of the Archbishop’s coin from my pocket. Thank goodness Father Orville hadn’t yet noticed my pants. He’d probably have had a fit and died. I stuffed the coin into his palm. “I pray you’ll accept this indulgence to alleviate my sentence.”
He harrumphed but slid it into his robes. “I suppose caring for the sick is a worthy pursuit—”
“Fantastic.” Coco beamed and steered me away before he could change his mind. Ansel trailed behind as if unsure where he was supposed to go. “We’ll read them Proverbs.”
“Mind you follow protocol.” Father Orville gestured to the washroom near the exit, where two pieces of parchment had been affixed to the wall. The first was clearly a register of names. I drifted closer to read the tiny script of the second.
INFIRMARY PROCEDURES—WESTERN ENTRANCE
As decreed by HIS EMINENCE, THE ARCHBISHOP OF BELTERRA, all guests of the cathedral infirmary must present their name and identification to the initiate on duty. Failure to do so will result in removal from the facilities and lawful action.
Feuillemort Asylum representatives—
Please check in at Father Orville’s office. Packages are distributed from the Eastern Entrance.
Clergymen and healers—
Please utilize the register and inspection form located at the Eastern Entrance.
The following procedures must be observed at all times:
1.The infirmary must remain clean and free of debris.
2.Irreverent language and behavior are not tolerated.
3.All guests must remain with a member of staff. Guests found unaccompanied will be escorted from the facilities. Lawful action may be taken.
4.All guests must wear appropriate garments. Upon entry, healers will distribute white robes to don over layperson garments. These robes must be returned to a member of staff before departure from the facilities. These robes aid odor control throughout Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine and Chasseur Tower. They are required. Failure to don robes will result in permanent removal from the facilities.
5.All guests must wash thoroughly before departure from the facilities. The guest inspection form is located in the washroom near the Western Entrance. Failure to pass inspection will result in permanent removal from the facilities.
Holy hell. This place was a prison.
“Of course, Father Orville.” Coco grabbed my hand and steered me away from the sign. “We’ll stay out of your hair. You won’t even notice we’re here. And you”—she glanced over her shoulder at Ansel—“run along and play. We don’t require further assistance.”
“But Reid—”
“Come now, Ansel.” Father Orville made to clasp Ansel’s shoulder and found his elbow instead. “Let the young ladies tend the sickbeds. You and I shall join in prayerful communion until they are done. I have accomplished all I can with the poor souls this morning. I regret two are heading for Feuillemort in the morning, as their souls are unresponsive to my healing hand. . . .”
His voice trailed off as he led Ansel down the corridor. Ansel threw a pleading look over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend.
“Feuillemort?” I asked curiously.
“Shh . . . not yet,” Coco whispered.
She opened a door at random and pushed me through. At the sound of our entrance, the man’s head twisted toward us—and kept twisting. We watched in horror, frozen, as he crept from the bed on inverted limbs, his joints bending and popping from their sockets unnaturally. An animalistic gleam lit his eyes, and he hissed, scuttling toward us like a spider.
“What in the—”
“Out, out, out!” Coco shoved me from the room and slammed the door shut. The man’s body thudded against it, and he let out a strange wail. She took a deep breath, smoothing her healer’s robes. “Okay, let’s try that again.”
I eyed the door apprehensively. “Must we?”
She cracked another door open and peered inside. “This one should be fine.”
I peeked over her shoulder and saw a woman reading quietly. When she looked up at us, I jerked back, lifting a fist to my mouth. Her skin moved—like thousands of tiny insects crawled just beneath the surface.
“No.” Shaking my head, I backed away quickly. “I can’t do bugs.”
The woman held up a pleading hand. “Stay, please—” A swarm of locusts burst from her open mouth, choking her, and tears of blood streamed down her cheeks.
We slammed the door on her sobs.
“I choose the next door.” Chest heaving inexplicably, I considered my options, but the doors were all identical. Who knew what fresh horrors lay beyond? Male voices drifted toward us from a door at the end of the corridor, joined by the gentle clinking of metal. Morbidly curious, I inched toward it, but Coco stilled me with a curt shake of her head. “What is this place, anyway?” I asked.
“Hell.” She guided me up the corridor, casting a furtive look over her shoulder. “You don’t want to go down there. It’s where the priests . . . experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“I stumbled in last night while they were dissecting the brain of a patient.” She opened another door, surveying the room carefully before pushing it open wider. “They’re trying to understand where magic comes from.”
Inside, an elderly gentleman lay chained to an iron bedpost. He stared blankly at the ceiling.
Clink.
Pause.
Clink.
Pause.
Clink.
I looked closer and gasped. His fingers were tipped with black, his nails elongated and sharpened into points. He tapped his forearm with his pointer finger rhythmically. With each tap, a bead of inky blood welled—too dark to be natural. Poisonous. Hundreds of other marks already discolored his entire body—even his face. None had healed over. All wept black blood.
Metallic rot mingled with the sweet scent of magic in the air.
Clink.
Pause.
Clink.
Bile rose in my throat. He looked less a man now, and more a creature of nightmares and shadows.
Coco closed the door behind us, and his milky eyes found mine. The hair on my neck stood up.
“It’s just Monsieur Bernard.” Coco crossed the room and scooped up one of the manacles. “He must’ve slipped his chains again.”
“Holy hell.” I drifted closer as she gently clasped the manacle back around the man’s free hand. He continued staring at me with those empty eyes. Unblinking. “What happened to him?”
“The same thing that happened to everyone else up here.” She smoothed his limp hair from his face. “Witches.”
I swallowed hard and walked to his bedside, where a Bible sat atop a lonely iron chair. Glancing at the door, I lowered my voice. “Perhaps we could help him.”
Coco sighed. “It’s no use. The Chasseurs brought him in early this morning. They found him wandering outside La Forêt des Yeux.” She touched the blood on his hand and lifted it to her nose, inhaling. “His nails are poisoned. He’ll be dead soon. That’s why the priests have kept him here instead of sending him to the asylum.”
Heaviness settled in my chest as I eyed the dying man. “And—and what was that torture device Father Orville was carrying?”
She grinned. “You mean the Bible?”
“Very funny. No—I meant the metal thing. It looked . . . sharp.”
Her grin faded. “It is sharp. It’s called a syringe. The priests use them for injections.”
“Injections?”
Coco leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. The white of her robes nearly blended into the pale stone, giving the illusion of a floating head staring at me across Monsieur Bernard’s body. I shuddered again. This place gave me the creeps.
“That’s what they’re calling them.” Her eyes darkened. “But I’ve seen what they can do. The priests have been tampering with poison. Hemlock, specifically. They’ve been testing it on the patients to perfect the dosage. I think they’re creating a weapon to use against the witches.”
Dread crept down my spine. “But the Church thinks only flame can truly kill a witch.”
“Though they might call us demons, they know we’re mortal. We bleed like humans. Feel pain like humans. But the injections aren’t meant to kill us. They cause paralysis. The Chasseurs will just have to get close enough to inject us, and we’re as good as dead.”
A moment passed as I tried to grasp this disturbing development. I glanced down at Monsieur Bernard, a bitter taste coating my mouth. Remembered the insects crawling beneath a woman’s skin only a few doors down, the bloody tears on her cheeks. Perhaps the priests weren’t the only ones to blame.
Paralysis—or even the stake—was preferable to some fates.
“What are you doing here, Mademoiselle Perrot?” I finally asked. At least she hadn’t used her real name. The Monvoisin family had a certain . . . notoriety. “You’re supposed to be hiding with your aunt.”
She actually had the gall to pout. “I could ask you the same question. How could you not invite me to your wedding?”
A bubble of laughter escaped my lips. It sounded eerie in the stillness. Monsieur Bernard’s nail tapped against his manacle now.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
I ignored him. “Trust me, if I would’ve had any say in the guest list, you would’ve been there.”
“Maid of honor?”
“Of course.”
Slightly appeased, Coco sighed and shook her head. “Married to a Chasseur . . . When I heard the news, I didn’t believe it.” A small grin touched her lips. “You’ve got balls the size of boulders.”
I laughed louder this time. “You are so depraved, Coco—”
“And what of your husband’s balls?” She waggled her eyebrows fiendishly. “How do they compare to Bas’s?”
“What do you know about Bas’s balls?” My cheeks hurt from smiling. I knew it was wrong—what with the cursed, dying Monsieur Bernard lying next to me—but the heaviness in my chest gradually eased as Coco and I fell back into our easy banter. It felt good to see a friendly face after wading through a sea of hostile ones for two straight days—and to know she was safe. For now.
She sighed dramatically and refolded the blanket atop Monsieur Bernard. He didn’t stop clinking. “You talk in your sleep. I had to live vicariously.” Her smile faded when she looked back at me. She nodded to my bruises. “Did your husband do that?”
“Courtesy of Andre, unfortunately.”
“I wonder how Andre would fare without his balls. Perhaps I’ll pay him a little visit.”
“Don’t bother. I set the Chasseurs on him—on both of them.”
“What?” Her eyes widened in delight as I recounted the interrogation. “You fiendish little witch!” she crowed when I’d finished.
“Shhh!” I stole to the door and pressed my ear against the wood, listening for signs of movement outside. “Do you want them to catch us? Speaking of which . . .” I turned back to face her when I was sure no one hovered outside. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to rescue you, of course.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”
“One of the healers resigned her post to get married last week. The Fathers needed a replacement.”
I gave her a hard look. “And you know this how?”
“Easy.” She sank onto the end of the bed. Monsieur Bernard kept clinking away, though thankfully turned his disturbing stare to her now instead. “I waited for her replacement to show up early yesterday morning and convinced her I would be the better candidate.”
“What? How?”
“I asked her nicely, of course.” She fixed me with a pointed stare before rolling her eyes. “How do you think? I stole her letter of recommendation and bewitched her into forgetting her own name. The real Brie Perrot is currently vacationing in Amaris, and no one will ever know the difference.”
“Coco! What a stupid risk—”
“I’ve been trying to find a way to speak with you all day, but the priests are relentless. I’ve been in training.” She pursed her lips at the word before drawing a wrinkled piece of parchment from her robes. I didn’t recognize the spiked handwriting, but I did recognize the dark stain of blood. The sharp scent of blood magic. “I sent a letter to my aunt, and she’s agreed to protect you. You can come back with me. The coven is camped near the city, but they won’t remain there long. They’re heading north within the fortnight. We can sneak out of here before anyone knows you’re gone.”
My stomach sank. “Coco, I . . .” Sighing, I looked around the austere room for an explanation. I couldn’t tell her I didn’t trust her aunt—or anyone except for her, for that matter. Not really. “I think this might be the safest place for me right now. A Chasseur literally just took an oath to protect me.”
“I don’t like it.” She shook her head fervently and rose to her feet. “You’re playing with fire here, Lou. Sooner or later, you will get burnt.”
I grinned halfheartedly. “Let’s hope for later, then.”
She glared at me. “This isn’t funny. You’re leaving your safety—your life—up to men who’ll burn you if they discover what you are.”
My grin faded. “No, I’m not.” When she looked likely to argue, I spoke over her. “I’m not. I swear I’m not. It’s why I came up here today—why I’ll keep coming up here every day until she comes for me. Because she will come for me, Coco. I won’t be able to hide forever.”
I paused, taking a deep breath.
“And when she does, I’m going to be ready. No more depending on tricks and costumes. Or Babette’s reconnaissance or Bas’s lineage. Or you.” I gave her an apologetic smile and twisted Angelica’s Ring on my finger. “It’s time I start being proactive. If this ring hadn’t been in Tremblay’s vault, I would’ve been in serious shit. I’ve let myself grow weak. The risk of discovery outside this corridor is too great, but here . . . here I can practice, and no one will ever know.”
She smiled, slow and broad, and looped her arm through mine. “That’s more like it. Except you’re wrong about one thing. You’ll absolutely keep depending on me, because I’m not going anywhere. We’ll practice together.”
I frowned, torn between begging her to stay and forcing her to go. But it wasn’t my decision, and I already knew what she’d tell me if I tried to force her to do anything. I’d learned my favorite swear words from her, after all. “It’ll be dangerous. Even with the smell disguising the magic, the Chasseurs could still discover us.”
“In which case you’ll need me here,” she pointed out, “so I can drain all the blood from their bodies.”
I stared at her. “Can you do that?”
“I’m not sure.” She winked and bade goodbye to Monsieur Bernard. “Perhaps we should find out.”
