When she finally spoke again, a wistful smile touched her lips. “I can’t remember much of her, but sometimes—when I really concentrate—I catch glimpses of blue, or light shining through water. The smell of lilies. I like to think it was her perfume.” Her smile faded, and she swallowed hard, as if the pleasant memory had turned sour on her tongue. “It’s all ridiculous, of course. I’ve been with Aunt Josephine since I was six.”

“Did she ever visit you? Your mother?”

“Not once.” Again, I waited, knowing she had more to say. “On my tenth birthday, I asked Aunt Josephine if Maman would come to celebrate.” She clutched her knees tighter against the wind. Or perhaps the memory. “I still remember Aunt Josephine’s face. I’ve never seen such loathing before. She . . . she told me my mother was dead.”

The confession struck me with unexpected force. I frowned, blinking rapidly against the stinging in my eyes, and looked away to compose myself. “Is she?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had the nerve to ask about her since.”

“Shit, Coco.” Eager to distract her, to distract myself, I shook my head, casting about for a change of subject. Anything would be preferable to this distressing conversation. I’d thought Morgane to be cruel. Perspective was a curious thing. “What was the book in your aunt’s tent?”

She turned her head to face me, frowning. “Her grimoire.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“Spells, mostly. A record of her experiments. Our family tree.”

I repressed a shudder. “What sort of spells? It seemed . . . alive.”

She snorted. “That’s because it’s creepy as hell. I’ve only flipped through it once in secret, but some of the spells in there are evil—curses, possession, sickness, and the like. Only a fool would cross my aunt.”

Now I couldn’t repress my shudder, no matter how hard I tried. Mercifully, Claud chose that moment to approach. “Mes chéries, though I am loath to interrupt, the hour has grown late. Might I suggest you both retire to the amber wagon? You are undoubtedly exhausted from your travels, and it is unwise to linger alone here at night.”

I climbed to my feet. “Where is Reid?”

Claud cleared his throat delicately. “Alas, Monsieur Diggory finds himself otherwise occupied at the moment.” At my arched brow, he sighed. “After a poorly timed jest from His Royal Highness, the young master Ansel has succumbed to tears. Reid is comforting him.”

Coco sprang to her feet, hissing like an incredulous, angry cat. When she at last found her words, she snarled, “I’m going to kill him.” Then she stormed back toward camp with a violent stream of curses. Beau—who spotted her coming across the way—changed directions abruptly, fleeing into a wagon.

“Do it slowly!” I called after her, adding a curse or two of my own. Poor Ansel. Though he’d be mortified if he saw Coco sweeping in to save him, someone needed to kick Beau’s ass.

Claud chuckled as a shout rent the air behind us. I turned, startled—and perhaps a bit pleased, expecting to see Beau wetting down his leg—and froze.

It wasn’t Beau at all.

A half dozen men spilled into the clearing, swords and knives drawn.

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

An Unexpected Reunion

Lou

“Get down,” Claud ordered, his voice abruptly deeper, more assertive. He pushed me flat to the ground behind him, angling his body to shield mine. But I still peeked beneath his arm, frantically searching for the blue coats of Chasseurs. There were none. Dressed in tattered rags and fraying coats, these men reeked instead of bandits. Literally reeked. I could smell them from where we lay, thirty paces away.

Claud had warned us about the danger of the road, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. The thought of mere men accosting us had been laughable in light of witches and huntsmen. But that realization wasn’t what made me gape. It wasn’t what made me struggle to rise, to race toward the thieves instead of away from them.

No. It was something else. Someone else.

At their back—wielding a blade as black as the dirt on his face—stood Bas.

“Shit.” Horrified, I elbowed Claud in the side as Bas’s and Reid’s eyes met. He didn’t budge. “Let me up! Let me up now!”

“Do not draw attention to yourself, Louise.” He held me down with a single arm, implausibly strong. “Remain still and quiet, or I’ll throw you in the creek—a most unpleasant experience, I assure you.”

“What the hell are you talking about? That’s Bas. He’s an old friend. He won’t harm me, but he and Reid look like they’re about to tear each other to pieces—”

“Let them,” he said simply.

Helpless, I watched as Reid drew his Balisarda from his bandolier. The last of his knives. The rest remained embedded in his turning board from our performance. Bas’s face twisted into a sneer. “You,” he spat.

His companions continued herding the others into the center of the campsite. We were woefully outnumbered. Though Ansel brandished his knife, they disarmed him within seconds. Four more men erupted from the wagon, dragging Coco and Beau out with them. Already, they’d tied their wrists and ankles with rope, and both struggled in vain to free themselves. Madame Labelle, however, didn’t fight her captor. She acquiesced calmly, making casual eye contact with Toulouse and Thierry.

A short man with bone-white skin strolled toward Reid and Bas, picking his teeth with a dagger.

“And just who might this be, eh, Bas?”

“This is the man who killed the Archbishop.” Bas’s voice was unrecognizable, hard as the steel in his hands. His hair had grown long and matted in the months since I’d last seen him, and a wicked scar forked down his left cheek. He looked . . . sharp. Hungry. The opposite of the soft, cosseted boy I’d known. “This is the man who killed the Archbishop. Fifty thousand couronnes for his capture.”

Bone White’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Reid Diggory. How ’bout that?” He laughed—a jarring, ugly sound—before slapping one of the wagons in delight. “Dame Fortune’s right, innit? Here we was thinking we’d pinch a few coins, maybe cop a touch wit’ a pretty actress, and friggin’ Reid Diggory falls in our lap!”

Another bandit—this one tall and balding—stepped forward, tugging Coco along with him. His knife remained at her throat. “Innit there another one travelin’ wit’ him, boss? A girl wit’ a nasty scar at her throat? Posters say she’s a witch.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Keep quiet,” Claud breathed. “Do not move.”

But that was stupid. We were in plain sight. All the idiots had to do was glance down the stream, and they’d spot us—

“Yer right.” Bone White scanned the rest of the troupe eagerly. “Hundred thousand couronnes for the head o’ that one.”

Reid’s hand tensed on his Balisarda, and Bone White smiled, revealing brown teeth. “I’d hand that over if I was you, sonny. Don’t be gettin’ no delusions of grandeur.” He gestured to Coco, and Baldy tightened his hold. “’Less you wanna see this pretty little thing without her head too.”