Lou looked back at me. I nodded. A reflex.

“Excellent!” Claud parted his hands to the sky in celebration. The snow fell thicker now. Heavier. “And precisely what is your act, Monsieur Diggory? A handsome, gargantuan fellow like yourself is sure to please a crowd, especially”—he leapt to the smaller wagon, pulling forth a pair of leather pants—“in an ensemble such as this. With a fetching wig and top hat, perhaps a bit of kohl around the eyes, you are sure to enthrall the crowd no matter your performance.”

I stared at him for a second too long. “Er—”

“He’s a storyteller,” Lou said quickly, loudly, stepping backward to clutch my hand. I recognized her shift in posture. The subtle lilt in her voice. She’d started her performance already. Distracting them from—from me. “He loves stories. And you’re right. He’ll look ravishing in those pants. Shirtless, of course.”

She smirked and squeezed my fingers.

“Inspired!” Deveraux tapped his chin as he considered us. “Alas, I’m afraid we already have a storyteller in sweet, sweet Zenna.” He nodded to the lavender-haired woman, who seized this fresh opportunity to protest. Sweetly.

“See? He’s useless. If it were meant to be, Dame Fortune would’ve sent someone—”

“Can you use those knives?” Deveraux’s kohl-rimmed eyes fell to my open coat, to the knives strapped beneath it. “We latterly lost our knife thrower to a troupe in Amandine, and”—he leaned closer, winking—“though I myself am disinclined to choose favorites, the audience is not.”

“Oh, you cannot be serious, Claud.” Eyes sparking, Zenna planted a hand on each of her hips. “Nadine’s act was mediocre at best—certainly not better than mine—and even if it weren’t, I’m not splitting tips with this lot. We don’t even know them. They could murder us in our sleep. They could turn us into toads. They could—”

“Tell you that you have lipstick on your teeth,” Lou finished.

Zenna glared at her.

“It’s true,” Beau said helpfully. “Right there at the side.”

Scowling, Zenna turned to rub at her incisors.

Lou grinned and returned her attention to Deveraux. “Reid’s knives are practically extensions of his limbs, monsieur. He’ll hit any target you put in front of him.”

“How marvelous!” With a last, lingering look at said knives, Deveraux turned to Madame Labelle. “And you, chérie . . . ?”

“I’m—”

“His assistant.” Lou grinned wider. “Why don’t we strap her to a board and give you a demonstration?”

Deveraux’s brows climbed up his forehead. “I’m sure that’s unnecessary, but I do appreciate your enthusiasm. Quite infectious, I tell you.” He turned to Beau, sweeping into a ridiculous bow. His nose touched the tip of his boot. “If I might divulge, Your Highness, it is an exceptional and unparalleled delight to make your acquaintance. I’m positively expiring with suspense at the prospect of learning your myriad talents. Tell us one, if you please. How will you dazzle us on the stage?”

Beau didn’t return his smile. His lip curled. “I won’t be on the stage, and I certainly won’t be wearing anything feathered nor fuchsia.” At Deveraux’s expectant look, he sighed. “I’ll do your sums.”

Deveraux clapped his mittened hands together. “Just so! For royalty, we shall make an exception!”

“And you?” Zenna asked, sneering at Lou. “Any special talents for the stage?”

“If you must know, I play the mandolin. Quite well, in fact, because—” She hesitated, dipping her chin in an uncharacteristic display of insecurity. Though small—nearly indiscernible—the movement unsettled me. Pierced the haze of my thoughts. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell us,” I said softly.

“Well . . . my mother insisted I learn to play. The harp, the clavichord, the rebec—but the mandolin was her favorite.”

I frowned. I hadn’t known Lou could play a single instrument, let alone many. She’d once told me she couldn’t sing, and I’d assumed . . . but no. Those calluses on her fingers weren’t from swordplay. The mandolin. I wracked my brain, trying to picture the instrument, to remember the sound, but I couldn’t. The only instrument I’d heard in childhood had been an organ. I hadn’t cared to make time for others.

“Ha!” Zenna laughed in triumph. “We already have a musician. Claud is a virtuoso. The best in the kingdom.”

“Bully for him,” Lou muttered, stooping to save the fuchsia feathers from the snow. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I said it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m not joining the troupe.”

“I do beg your pardon?” Claud accepted the feathers with a scandalized expression. The wind picked up around us. It nearly blew his hat to the rooftops. “I believe I misheard you in this gale.”

“You didn’t.” Lou gestured to Ansel and Coco, raising her voice. Snow soaked her new cloak. She clutched it under her chin to keep herself concealed. “The three of us will be traveling in a different direction.”

Deveraux flapped his hands, and the feathers scattered once more. “Nonsense! Preposterous! As you have so succinctly surmised, the road is not safe for you. You must come with us!” He shook his head too vigorously, and the wind snatched his hat. It spiraled upward and disappeared into the snow. “No. No, I fear there is no question that our little rendezvous at the pub was fated by none other than Dame Fortune herself. Furthermore, I cannot abide you traveling the road alone. Nay, I refuse to have that on my conscience.”

“They will not be alone.”

An unfamiliar voice. An inexplicable chill.

Lou and I stepped together, turning as one to the dark figure beside us.

A woman.

I hadn’t heard her approach, hadn’t seen her draw near. Yet she stood no more than a hand’s breadth away, staring up at me with eerie, colorless eyes. Uncommonly thin—almost skeletal—with alabaster skin and black hair, she looked more wraith than human. My hand shot to my Balisarda. She tilted her head in response, the movement too quick, too bestial, to be natural.

Absalon wound between her emaciated ankles.

“Nicholina.” Coco bared her teeth in a snarl. “Where’s my aunt?”

The woman’s face split into a slow, cruel grin, revealing bloodstained teeth. I pulled Lou backward, away from her. “Not here,” she sang, her voice strange and high-pitched. Girlish. “Not here, not here, but always near. We come to answer your call.”

I felt her strange eyes on me as I heaved the last trunk into the wagon.

The others hastened to secure belongings, calm horses, check knots. Deveraux had pulled Lou aside, and they appeared to be arguing over the strange woman’s arrival. I couldn’t tell. Snow blew around us in a tempest now, eliminating visibility. Only two of the torches lining the street remained. The rest had succumbed to the storm.

Scowling, I finally turned to face her—Nicholina—but she was gone.

“Hello, huntsman.”

I jumped at her voice directly behind me, startled by her close proximity. Heat flushed my throat, my face. “Who are you?” I asked. “How do you keep doing that?”