A speck of white glinted amidst the golden cords.

As soon as I touched it, a single white cord pulsed to life—wrapping around my fingers, my wrist, my arm—and my sixth sense sharpened to crystal clarity. Finally. With a sigh of relief, I whipped my head east once more, gauging the time we had left.

“What’s happening?” Ansel asked, alarmed.

“I found him.”

Without another word, I tore into the forest, following the white blaze of light. Racing against the sunrise. The others crashed after me, and the crow careened from its branch with an indignant caw! Snow flew everywhere. Fiercely hopeful, invigorated, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Where is he?” Ismay cried, struggling to keep up.

“How does it work?” Gaby soon outpaced her. “Your—your pattern?”

Ansel tripped on a root, nearly decapitating himself on a lower bough. “Why now?”

I ignored them all, ignoring the burn in my lungs and running faster. We had a chance now—a real chance to procure this alliance. The white pattern continued to pulse, leading me closer and closer to victory, and I nearly crowed in triumph. La Voisin hadn’t expected me to find him. I’d prove her wrong, prove them all wrong.

My certainty punctured slightly as the trees thinned around us and the first tents of camp came into view.

“He’s—he’s here?” Face flushed and breath heavy, Ismay looked around wildly. “Where? I don’t see him.”

I slowed as the pattern wove through the campsite—between firepits and caged animals, past Coco and Babette—before curving down the slope toward . . .

Toward our tent.

I stumbled those last few steps, rounding the corner and skidding to a halt. The pattern burst in a cloud of glittering white dust, and my blood ran cold. Ismay’s scream confirmed what I already knew.

Propped against the pole of our tent was the corpse of a young man with auburn hair.

..................................................................

The Fool

Reid

“Er—” Toulouse blinked at me the next morning, his baguette still caught between his teeth. Hastily, he tore off a chunk, chewed, and swallowed—then choked. Thierry thumped his back with silent laughter. I still hadn’t heard him speak a word. “Come again?”

“Your tattoo,” I repeated stiffly. Heat crept up my neck at the awkwardness. I’d never needed to make friends before. I’d never even needed to get to know someone. I’d simply always known Célie and Jean Luc. And Lou . . . suffice it to say, there’d never been any awkward silences in our relationship. She always filled them. “What does it mean?”

Toulouse’s black eyes still watered. “Straight to the personal questions, eh?”

“It’s on your face.”

“Touché.” He grinned, contorting the tattoo on his cheek. Small. Golden. A rose. It gleamed metallic. When I’d sat next to him and his brother to break my fast, it’d been the first thing I’d seen. The first question out of my mouth. My neck still burned. Perhaps it hadn’t been the right question to ask. Perhaps it’d been too . . . personal. How could I have known? He’d inked the thing right on his cheek.

Across the fire, Madame Labelle ate her morning meal—cantal cheese and salted ham—with Zenna and Seraphine. Clearly, she hoped to befriend them like she hoped I’d befriend the St. Martins. Her attempts had been met with more enthusiasm than my own; Zenna preened under her praise, swelling like a peacock. Even Seraphine seemed reluctantly pleased at the attention. Behind them, Beau cursed. Deveraux had coerced him into helping with the horses, and it sounded as though he’d just stepped in dung.

My morning could’ve been worse.

Slightly mollified, I returned my attention to Toulouse and Thierry.

When they’d entered the amber wagon last night, I’d feigned sleep, torn with indecision. It still didn’t sit right, my mother’s plan. It still felt deceitful to feign friendship. But if deceit would defeat Morgane, if it would help Lou, I could pretend. I could tolerate magic.

I could befriend whoever wielded it here.

Toulouse drew a deck from his pocket, flicking a single card toward me. I caught it instinctively. In thick paints of black, white, and gold, the card depicted a boy standing on a cliff. He held a rose in his hand. A dog stood at his feet.

My first instinct was to recoil. The Church had never tolerated tarot cards. The Archbishop had counseled King Auguste to ban all variety of them from Cesarine years ago. He’d claimed their divination mocked the omniscience of God. He’d claimed those who partook in them would be damned to Hell.

He’d claimed so many things.

I cleared my throat, feigning interest. “What is it?”

“The Fool.” Toulouse tapped the rose on his cheek. “First card I ever drew. I inked it as a reminder of my innocence.” My eyes honed in on his hands. Black symbols decorated the skin there—one tattoo on each of his knuckles. I vaguely recognized a bolt of lightning. A shield. “The Major Arcana cards,” he explained. “Twenty-two in all. Ten on my fingers. Ten on my toes. One on my cheek, and one . . . elsewhere.”

He expected a laugh at that. Too late, I forced a chuckle. The sound came out dry, rough, like a cough. He and Thierry exchanged an amused glance at my expense, and I ground my teeth in frustration. I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to transition smoothly to another topic. God, why wouldn’t they say something? Another silence threatened to loom. Panicked, I glanced at my mother, who stared at me in disbelief. When she waved her hand impatiently, mouthing, Go on, Zenna didn’t hide her snicker. Seraphine, however, pulled a Bible from her bag and started reading.

My stomach clenched.

“Uh . . .” I trailed off, not quite sure how to finish. Are you both witches? How long have you known? Did your powers manifest after brutally killing your patriarch? Will you join us in a battle to the death against Morgane? Each question rattled around my brain, but somehow, I didn’t think they’d appreciate them. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem inclined to end my suffering, either. And their smiles—they were almost too benign. Like they enjoyed watching me squirm.

I’d probably tried to kill them at some point.

Turning quickly to Thierry, I blurted, “What’s your act?”

Thierry’s eyes, black and fathomless, bore into my own. He didn’t answer. I cringed in the silence. My voice had been too loud, too curt. A shout instead of a civil question. At least Beau hadn’t yet returned to witness my failure. He would’ve laughed himself hoarse. The mighty Reid Diggory—youngest captain of the Chasseurs, recipient of four Medals of Honor for bravery and outstanding service—laid low at last by small talk with strangers. What a joke.

“He doesn’t speak,” Toulouse said after another painful moment. “Not like you and I do.”

I latched onto his answer like a lifeline. “Why not?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” With a flick of his wrist, he cut the cards, shuffling them with lightning speed.

I returned his polite smile with one of my own. “I’m not a cat.”