Parting Lou’s lips, she tipped the entire vial between them. Honey followed.

Color immediately returned to Lou’s cheeks, and her breathing deepened. The blisters on her mouth vanished. The transformed scar, however, remained. If I looked too close, it seemed to . . . ripple in the breeze. Unconsciously, I lifted a hand to touch it, but Beau cleared his throat, startling me. He’d moved closer than I’d realized.

I dropped my hand.

“What happens when she wakes up?” he asked.

Coco’s grin faded. “We exorcise Nicholina.”

“How?”

Silence reigned in answer. Waves lapped the black sand. A lone gull cried overhead. At last, Célie offered a tentative, “You said . . . you said my father’s locket—”

“My mother’s locket,” Coco corrected her.

“Of course.” Célie nodded in haste, trying her best not to look horribly, terribly out of her depth. “Y-You said the magic of your mother’s locket stems from L’Eau Mélancolique. It showed us Nicholina’s true reflection.”

“And?”

“You said the waters can heal.”

“I also said the waters can harm. They were created from the tears of a madwoman.” Coco stood, tucking the empty vials back into her pack. I remained beside Lou, tracking the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyelids began to twitch. “They’re volatile. Temperamental. They’re just as likely to kill Lou as to restore her. We can’t risk it.”

Between one breath and another, an idea sparked. My gaze darted to Célie. The empty sheath on my bandolier—right above my heart—weighed heavier than usual. I hadn’t felt its absence since Modraniht. “We need a Balisarda, Célie.” I scrambled to my feet. Sand flew in every direction as I rushed toward her. “Jean Luc—you can contact him, right?” She murmured something unintelligible in response, her gaze dropping to her boot with keen interest. “If you ask, he’ll bring you his Balisarda, and we can—”

“And we can what?” Beau asked, perplexed. Célie stooped to pick up a whitewashed shell, hiding her face altogether. “Cut Nicholina out of her?”

“We’d just need to break her skin with the blade,” I said, thinking rapidly. Yes. Yes, this could work. I plucked the seashell from Célie’s hand and discarded it. She watched it go with a forlorn expression, still refusing to look at me. “A Balisarda dispels enchantments. It would exorcise Nicholina—”

Beau lifted a casual, mocking hand. “Just how deep would we need to cut, brother? Would it be a simple slice down her arm, or would a spear through her heart suffice?”

I shot him a glare before gripping Célie’s freed hands. “Write to him, Célie.” Then, in another burst of inspiration, I spun toward Coco. “You could magic him the letter, like you did with your aunt in the Hollow.”

“Magic a letter into Chasseur Tower?” Coco rolled her eyes. “They’d lash him to a stake by morning.”

Célie pulled her hands from mine. Gentle at first, then firm. She reluctantly met my eyes. “It matters not. He will not come.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s mad about you—”

“No, Reid,” she insisted. “The conclave has assembled in Cesarine to elect a new Archbishop. It’s why he didn’t follow me in the first place. His presence has been requested by the priests, by the king. He cannot come here, and I cannot ask him—not for this. Not for Lou. I am sorry.”

I stared at her for a beat.

Not for this. Not for Lou. The imperiousness in her voice punctured my hope. My foolish optimism. Had she just . . . dismissed us? As if this weren’t equally important as the Church’s conclave? As if this wouldn’t decide the fate of the kingdom in a more tangible way? Lou might not have been the only player on the board, but she was certainly the most critical. Only a fool wouldn’t recognize that.

Jean Luc wasn’t a fool. Neither was Célie.

When I next spoke, ice coated my voice. My veins. “Lou risked everything for you.”

She blinked in surprise at my tone. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “I— Reid, of course I am very grateful for that! I would never presume to—to deny her heroism or involvement in my rescue, but she—” Cheeks coloring, she leaned closer, as if speaking a dirty word. “Reid, she is a witch. If there were even a possibility of Jean abandoning his responsibilities to save her—of forsaking his oath as a Chasseur—of course I would ask, but—”

“But we’re a witch,” Nicholina cackled gleefully, sitting upright in the sand, “so you will not risk the question. Pity. Such a pretty, pretty pity, you are. Such a pretty, pretty porcelain doll.”

I jerked her hands behind her back, holding her wrists captive. Beau joined me, poised to help if she struggled. But she didn’t. She merely gazed serenely up at Coco, who crouched in front of her. “Bonjour, notre princesse rouge. I must say you look terrible.”

“You look better than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Ah, we know.” Grinning with Lou’s lips and Lou’s teeth, she gazed down at herself. “This skin suits us.”

Flames erupted in my chest at her words. This skin. “She isn’t a suit,” I snarled, tightening my hold on her wrists until they threatened to snap. I knew I shouldn’t. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hurt her, to force her out violently if necessary. When she laughed in response—tipping her head back with relish, leaning fully into my chest—I felt my hands twist. Another second, and her bones would shatter. Just one more second. Just one.

She moaned in pleasure.

“Yes, Reid. Yes.” Tongue flicking out to lick her teeth, she dropped her head to my shoulder. “Hurt me. Hurt this body. This suit. We’ll enjoy it, yes. We’ll savor each bruise.”

I recoiled instantly, hands shaking. Blood roared in my ears. Beau caught her wrists between heartbeats. His mouth firmed when she turned to nuzzle his chest. “Mmm. A prince. I tasted your cousin once.”

Coco gripped her chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Kink is consensual, Nicholina. We’re going to remove you one way or another. It won’t be kinky. It won’t be consensual. But it will hurt.”

“Oooh, tell me, with the captain’s holy stick? I wonder how he’ll help you? Will he prick, prick, prick—”

“There shall be no pricking,” Beau interrupted. “Holy sticks or otherwise. No unnecessary force either,” he added, glancing pointedly between Coco and me. “Nicholina might be, well, Nicholina, but she’s hiding behind Lou. Who knows what Lou can see and hear? What she can feel?”

Nicholina laughed again. “I said she’s dead, she’s dead I said. The gold one is gone. I’m here instead.”

I ignored her, nodding with a deep breath. Lou wasn’t dead. She wasn’t. Suppressing a red haze of anger, I took her wrists back from Beau. Though physically repulsed—at her, at myself—I rubbed the angry skin there with my thumbs. This was Lou. This was Nicholina. They couldn’t be the same person, yet somehow, now, they were.

A golden pattern twined around our hands. Slowly, carefully, I fed it until the red tint in my vision faded. As my anger dissipated, so too did the marks on her wrists. With it, another burst of inspiration struck. I couldn’t heal her with a Balisarda, but perhaps I could heal her with magic. Closing my eyes, breathless with hope, I cast my net of gold in search of an answer. A cure, a restorative. Anything to purge Nicholina’s presence. The patterns coiled and undulated in response, but none connected. They simply drifted outward into nothing. Frustrated, I pulled at each one to examine it, to determine its asking price, but I sensed nothing from them. No gain. No give. These patterns weren’t functional. When I plucked one on a whim, snapping my fingers, it fell limp in my hand instead of dispersing.