Concentrating harder, I tried again. Nothing.

Though I hadn’t routinely practiced magic, I hadn’t expected my patterns to simply . . . wilt. Could they wilt? No. No, Nicholina must’ve been blocking me somehow. As often as I’d tried to dispose of my magic, I knew it couldn’t go away so easily. Perhaps my intent had been wrong.

I focused anew. Help me exorcise Lou.

Nothing.

Help me force Nicholina out of Lou.

The patterns floated aimlessly.

Help me heal Lou. Help me hurt Nicholina. Help me make her like before.

The patterns continued to wander. A vessel nearly burst in my forehead now. I lost track of the others’ conversation entirely. Please. Please. Help me save her.

At the last request, the patterns thrummed, growing brighter and collecting into a single cord. Those familiar voices whispered in my ear—save her, save her, save her—as I followed the pattern to a face.

To . . . to Morgane’s face.

My entire body recoiled in realization, in horror, and my eyes snapped open. Not that. Anything but that. The cost would be too great, no matter the outcome.

Still hovering around Nicholina, the others blinked at me. “Er . . .” Beau’s brows dipped. “Are you constipated, brother?”

I cast the pattern from my mind. I couldn’t act on it. I wouldn’t. “My magic won’t work.”

“If you’d been listening”—he jerked his head to Coco—“she just said the magic of one witch can’t undo another. It has to be a different kind. Something old. Something powerful.”

“What did she have in mind?”

“What do I have in mind, actually.” Sniffing, he straightened the lace cuff of his sleeve. A ridiculous display. It still dangled from his shoulder. “You’re all quite clearly forgetting we have a god at our disposal.”

“Ah, yes. King of the forest, the horned god.” Nicholina rocked back and forth, still laughing maniacally. “Out of all his names, he chose Claud.”

Coco ignored her, lips pursing in deep thought. “I could magic him a letter, but if he remains in the tunnels, it’ll burn before he sees it.”

Beau looked at her as if she were stupid. “He is a god.”

My realization dawned at the same moment hers did. “We pray to him,” I breathed.

“No.” Beau shook his head in distaste. “You pray to him. He likes you better than me.”

“Everyone likes me better than you.”

“Coco doesn’t.”

“I don’t like either of you,” she said irritably. “I also don’t pray.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Just do it, Reid.”

They all looked to me then: Beau petulant, Coco impatient, Célie apprehensive. Heat crept up my throat at the judgment in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. To her credit, she didn’t speak. Didn’t express any objection, any disapproval. Nicholina had no problem doing it for her. Her voice floated up on a croon. “Pray, huntsman. Pray to the old gods. Will your god mind, I wonder? Will he open the ground and cast you under?”

I cleared the uncertainty from my throat. “God doesn’t deny the existence of other deities. He—He just commands us to worship no other gods before Him.” When she tilted her head back, a smile nearly cleaving her face in two, I focused my attention on the waves. The horizon. I had a job to do. Unlike Coco, I did know how to pray. I’d done it every day—multiple times per day—for most of my life. Praying to Deveraux would be no different.

Except it was. Deveraux wasn’t a nameless, faceless divinity. He was a fiddler, for Christ’s sake.

I winced at the apt profanity.

Delicate fingers touched my elbow. Célie’s earnest face looked up at me. She swallowed, clearly torn, before whispering, “Perhaps you could . . . start as you would the Lord’s Prayer.”

I was going to Hell. Still, I nodded, closing my eyes and trying to disassociate. To compartmentalize.

Our Father who art in . . . Cesarine, hallowed be thy name.

I felt the others’ stares on my burning cheeks. Felt their fascination. Felt like a complete and total idiot. This wasn’t going to work. Deveraux was a god, not the God, and if I hadn’t been damned before, I would be now. No sense in further ceremony. Irritably now, I called, Deveraux? I don’t know if you can hear me. You probably can’t. It’s me. Reid. Nothing happened. Nicholina has possessed Lou, and we need you to exorcise her. Please. Still nothing. I tried again. Can you meet us? We’re in a small village along the coast of northern Belterra called Fée Tombe. It’s about three days from Chateau le Blanc. You probably already know that. You probably already know all of this. Or you don’t, and I’m talking to myself like a jackass.

I cringed again, cracking an eye open.

Beau searched the cliffs for a moment before frowning. “Well, that was underwhelming.” He glanced to the sky instead. “He is god of the wilderness, right? I didn’t mishear his pretentious little speech?”

Coco squinted down the beach. “King of flora and fauna.”

“Frankly, his silence is insulting. He could at least send a bird to shit on our heads or something.” Beau harrumphed and turned to me. “Are you sure you’re doing it properly?”

I scowled at him. “Would you like to try?”

“Let’s not be rash. Perhaps you should give it another go.”

I forced my eyes shut. Launched another prayer into the ether with all my concentration. Please, Claud. Answer us. We need help. We need you. When he still didn’t answer, heat prickled my collar. I opened my eyes. Shook my head. “His silence is answer enough.”

Beau’s hands fell to his hips. “What are we supposed to do, then? We have an empty bandolier, a negligent god, and”—he gestured to Nicholina in distaste—“an abysmal poet. Oh, don’t give me that look. Your work is derivative at best and juvenile at worst.” His frown deepened as he looked to each of us in turn. “What else is there?”

I’m sick with hope, but I can’t make it go away. It’s still here, even now. Poisoning me.

Only the sound of the waves answered.

And there it was.

I met Coco’s gaze directly. “We don’t have a choice.”

Shaking her head with regret, she closed her eyes and whispered, “The Wistful Waters.”

Part II

La nuit porte conseil.

The night brings advice.

—French proverb

Death at the Waters

Nicholina

The huntsman and the princess mean to punish me with their poisoned ropes, but we relish the friction. We rub until our wrists are raw. Until her wrists are raw. Because it’s the mouse and her huntsman who suffer most—she cannot feel it, no, but he can. He knows she’s trapped. She knows it too. She doesn’t see the gold as we do. Though she summons it, though she pleads, it cannot listen. We will not let it. And if voices not our own murmur a warning, if they hiss—if they know we do not belong—the patterns cannot fix it. They can only obey.

We can only obey.

Even if something is wrong. Even if below the gold magic, a newfound presence lingers. A newfound presence waits. I do not like it. I cannot use it. Unknown to the mouse, it coils like a snake preparing to strike, to protect. It is a gift, and it frightens us.