It was hard to say who the werewolves loathed more—huntsmen, witches, or princes.

Still, Reid knew those lands better than anyone in our company. He knew Blaise better than anyone in our company. I could only hope Madame Labelle’s and Beau’s diplomacy would serve them well. From what I’d heard of Blaise—which admittedly wasn’t much—he ruled with a fair hand. Perhaps he’d surprise us all.

Either way, we didn’t have time to visit both peoples together.

Tonight, we’d reconnoiter at a local pub to learn the exact date of the Archbishop’s funeral. With luck, we’d be able to reunite in Cesarine before the services to approach King Auguste together. Madame Labelle maintained he could be swayed into a third alliance. We’d find out—for better or for worse—when we visited his castle.

Like Ansel, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of it. There was still too much to do, too much of the puzzle missing. Too little time. We’d piece together the rest at the pub tonight, but before we could do that . . .

“Aha!” Triumphant, Beau pulled two bottles from Coco’s bag. She’d packed a motley assortment of ingredients to aid in her blood magic: some recognizable, such as herbs and spices, and some not, such as the gray powder and clear liquid Beau currently held aloft. “Wood ash and vinegar,” he explained. When we stared at him blankly, he heaved an impatient sigh. “For your hair. You still want to dye it the old-fashioned way, correct?”

“Oh.” Of their own volition, my hands shot up, covering my hair as if it protect it. “Yes—yes, of course.”

Coco clutched my shoulder for moral support, shooting daggers at Beau with her eyes. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve helped many a paramour dye their hair, Cosette. Indeed, before you, there was a buxom blonde by the name of Evonne.” He leaned closer, winking. “She wasn’t naturally blond, of course, but her other natural assets more than made up for it.” When Coco’s gaze flattened—and her fingers tightened painfully on my shoulder—Beau smirked. “Whatever is wrong, ma chatte? You aren’t . . . jealous?”

“You—”

I patted her hand, wincing. “I’ll dismember him for you after we’ve finished.”

“Slowly?”

“Piece by piece.”

With a satisfied nod, she strode after Madame Labelle, leaving me alone with Ansel and Beau. Awkwardness loomed between us, but I cut through it—literally—with an anxious swipe of my hand. “You do actually know what you’re doing, right?”

Beau ran his fingers through the length of my hair. Without Coco to goad him, he seemed to wilt, eyeing the bottles of wood ash and vinegar warily. “Never once did I claim to know what I’m doing.”

My stomach rose. “But you said—”

“What I said is that I helped a paramour dye her hair, but that was only to piss off Cosette. What I actually did was watch a paramour dye her hair, while feeding her strawberries. Naked.”

“If you fuck this up, I will skin you alive and wear your hide as a cape.”

He arched a brow, lifting the bottles to examine their labels. “Noted.”

Honestly, if a naked paramour didn’t start feeding me strawberries soon, I’d burn the world down.

After pouring equal parts of ash and vinegar into Coco’s mortar, he poked at it hopefully for several seconds, and an ominous gray sludge formed. Ansel eyed it in alarm. “How would you do it, though? If you magicked it a different color instead?”

Sweat broke out along my palms as Beau parted my hair into sections.

“That depends.” I cast about for a pattern, and sure enough, several tendrils of gold rose to meet me. Touching one, I watched it curl up my arm like a snake. “I’d be changing something about myself on the outside. I could change something on the inside to match. Or—depending on the end color—I could take the hue, depth, or tone of my current shade and manipulate it somehow. Maybe transfer the brown to my eyes instead.”

Ansel’s gaze shifted to Reid. “Don’t do that. I think Reid likes your eyes.” As if afraid he’d offended me somehow, he hastily added, “And I do too. They’re pretty.”

I chuckled, and the tension knotting my stomach eased a bit. “Thanks, Ansel.”

Beau leaned over my shoulder to look at me. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, I closed my eyes as he painted the first strand and kept my focus on Ansel. “Why are you so interested?”

“No reason,” he said quickly.

“Ansel.” I peeked an eye open to glare at him. “Out with it.”

He wouldn’t look at me, instead nudging a pine cone with his toe. Several seconds passed. Then several seconds more. I’d just opened my mouth to prod him along when he said, “I don’t remember much of my mother.”

My mouth closed with a snap.

Behind me, Beau’s hand stilled on my hair.

“She and my father died in a fire when I was three. Sometimes I think—” His eyes darted to Beau, who quickly resumed smearing the gray paste on my hair. Relieved, Ansel continued his dance with the pine cone. “Sometimes I think I can remember her laugh, or—or maybe his smile. I know it’s stupid.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way that I loathed. “I don’t even know their names. I was too frightened of Father Thomas to ask. He did once tell me Maman was an obedient, God-fearing woman, but for all I know, she could’ve been a witch.” He hesitated, swallowing hard, and finally met my eyes. “Just like—just like Reid’s mother. Just like you.”

My chest tightened at the hopefulness in his expression. Somehow, I knew what he was implying. I knew where this conversation was headed, and I knew what he wanted me to say—what he wanted, no, needed, to hear.

I hated disappointing him.

When I said nothing, his expression fell, but he continued determinedly. “If that’s the case, maybe . . . maybe I have magic too. It’s possible.”

“Ansel . . .” I took his hand, deliberating. If he’d lived with his mother—and father—until he was three, it was highly unlikely the woman had been a Dame Blanche. True, she could’ve lived outside the Chateau—many Dames Blanches did—but even they rarely kept their sons, who were considered burdens. Unable to inherit their mothers’ magic or enhance their family’s lineage.

Unbidden, my eyes cut to Reid, who whet his Balisarda on a stone with short, angry strokes.

How very wrong we’d been.

“It’s possible,” Ansel repeated, lifting his chin in an uncharacteristic display of stubbornness. “You said the blood witches keep their sons.”

“The blood witches don’t live in Cesarine. They live with their covens.”

“Coco doesn’t.”

“Coco is an exception.”

“Maybe I am too.”

“Where is this coming from, Ansel?”

“I want to learn how to fight, Lou. I want to learn magic. You can teach me both.”

“I’m hardly the person to—”

“We’re headed into danger, aren’t we?” He didn’t pause for me to confirm the obvious answer. “You and Coco have lived on the streets. You’re both survivors. You’re both strong. Reid has his training and his Balisarda. Madame Labelle has her magic, and even Beau was quick-witted enough to distract the other witches on Modraniht.”