I regarded her warily.

“Never fear.” She tugged her sign from the mud. An oddly mundane gesture amidst the uncanny circumstances. “We shall meet again soon, Reid Labelle. Plant those seeds.”

With a cheery wink, she vanished before our eyes, taking her sign and her strange little cart with her.

Le Cœur Brisé

Reid

“We’re here,” Coco said softly.

A quarter hour ago, she’d forced us to stop, to bear Nicholina to the ground and tip a sleeping tincture down her throat. It hadn’t been pretty. It hadn’t been fun. I still had bite marks on my hand to prove it.

We stood beneath the shadow of a lone cypress tree—at least, I thought it was a cypress. Below the smoke and clouds, true darkness had fallen once more. The forest at our backs stood eerily still. Even the wind had ceased here, yet a hint of brine still tinged the air. No waves, however. I heard no waves. No gulls, either. No signs of life at all. Shifting my feet uneasily, I took in the path ahead. Narrow and rocky, it disappeared into fog so thick I could’ve cut it with a knife. A chill skittered down my spine at what could be lurking within it. Despite no signs of Morgane and Josephine, the hair at my neck lifted. “What now?”

Coco came to stand beside me. “We keep going. Straight down.”

“Into that?” Beau too stepped forward, halting at my other side. He eyed the fog skeptically. “Can we not?”

“L’Eau Mélancolique lies past it.”

“Yes, but surely we can find less overtly ominous access.”

“Le Cœur Brisé is everywhere. One doesn’t access the Wistful Waters without him.”

Célie swallowed hard. “But—we only have three pearls. Madame Sauvage said humans aren’t allowed near the waters. She said they could drive us mad.”

“The waters can drive anyone mad. Human or witch.” Coco straightened her shoulders, still staring into the mist. “But you’re right. We just have three, so we’ll—we’ll walk the path as far as Le Cœur allows, but only Reid, Nicholina, and I will continue to shore.” Her eyes flashed to mine. “If we can pass his test.”

“What test?” I asked with mounting unease. “No one said anything about a test.”

She waved a curt hand. “You’ll pass.” Glancing at Nicholina, however, she added, “I’m not so sure about her, but he only tested us the once. Maybe he won’t this time either—”

Beau pounced on this new information, whirling to point a finger at Coco. Triumphant. Furious. “I knew you were hiding something.”

“Lou and I played at L’Eau Mélancolique as children,” Coco snapped. “It’s hardly a secret. Of course we ran into Le Cœur a time or two. He liked us, so he didn’t ask for pearls. We brought him tricks instead.”

Célie blinked in confusion. “But you said we needed black pearls.”

Huffing impatiently, Coco crossed her arms and looked away. “We do. We did—just not all the time. Lou once magicked them into spiders when he touched them. He’s terrified of spiders.”

A beat of silence.

“And he liked you?” Beau asked, perplexed.

“He liked me better than Lou.”

“Enough.” I hoisted Nicholina higher in my arms, starting toward the path. Tendrils of fog stretched out to meet me, curling around my boots. My ankles. I kicked them away. We were so close. Too close. “We didn’t come all this way to leave now.”

BUT LEAVE YOU SHALL. An abrupt, unfamiliar voice thundered around me, through me, and I stumbled, nearly sending Nicholina face-first into the mist. By the others’ reactions—Célie actually screamed—they’d heard it too. The mist at my feet visibly thickened, swirling up my legs now. I felt its pressure like a vise. Panicked, I leapt backward, and the mist released me. It didn’t stop thickening, however. It didn’t stop speaking. IF YOU CANNOT DRINK OF THE WATERS AND SPILL THEIR TRUTH.

I nearly stepped on Célie in my haste to retreat.

“What is it?” She clutched my arm, clutched Nicholina’s arm, clutched anything to ground herself in reality. But this was our reality—possessions, harbinger dogs, shape-shifting dragons, talking mist. It would never end. “Is it Le Cœur?”

In answer, the mist slowly darkened, drawing in on itself as a spider might spin its web. Growing limbs. A head. A pair of chilling coal-black eyes. Despite the ominous voice, those eyes softened on Coco as their owner stepped forth. Powerfully built—taller even than me—the man heaved a booming laugh and opened his arms to her. She hesitated for only a second before rushing forward. Voice hitching with laughter—perhaps tears—she buried her face in his chest and she said, “I’ve missed you, Constantin.”

Beau stared at them, dumbstruck, as they embraced. I might’ve found his expression comical if I too hadn’t felt this revelation like a blow to the head.

Constantin. Constantin. I knew the name, of course. How could I ever forget? Madame Labelle had held me captive with it in the Bellerose all those months ago, weaving magic with her tale of star-crossed lovers. Of magic rings and seas of tears and witches and holy men. Of Angelica and Constantin. The saint who’d gifted the Church his blessed sword, the original Balisarda. I’d carried a part of him with me for years, unaware his sword hadn’t been blessed at all, but enchanted by his lover. She’d wanted to protect him. He’d wanted her magic. When he hadn’t been able to take it from her, he’d eventually taken his life instead.

This couldn’t be the same man. Of course it couldn’t. The story said he’d died, and even if he hadn’t, he would be thousands of years old now. Long dead. And Coco—she hadn’t spoken a word about knowing Constantin during Madame Labelle’s tale. She would have told us. Surely. Lou’s life had been tangentially tied with him and Angelica, whose ill-fated love had first sparked the war between the Church and Dames Blanches. She would’ve told us. She would’ve.

“Constantin.” Beau said the name slowly, tasting it. Remembering. “I know that name. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Coco stiffened at his brash words, but Constantin merely chuckled. Ruffling her hair, he gently disentangled himself from her arms. “My reputation precedes me.”

“You’re Le Cœur Brisé?” I asked in disbelief. “The Broken Heart?”

His dark eyes glinted. “The irony is not lost on me, I assure you.”

“But you aren’t . . . you aren’t the Constantin. You’re not him.” When he simply stared at me, I exhaled a harsh breath and looked at Coco, unable to articulate the sudden, painful flare of emotion in my chest. She hadn’t told us. She’d . . . withheld information. She hadn’t lied—not exactly—but she hadn’t told the truth either. It felt like a betrayal.

“Right.” Shaking my head, I tried to refocus. “How?”

“Who cares?” Beau muttered, near indiscernible.

Constantin extended his arms. “I am cursed eternal, huntsman, because I yearned for more.”

Coco cast him a slanted look. “I think you went a bit further than that.”