“Yes, we are.”

When she didn’t answer, I turned away, fighting a scowl. Fine. She didn’t want to have this conversation. I wanted to have it even less. Crossing my arms against the chill, I’d just settled in for a long night of silence when Ansel’s fierce expression rose behind my lids. His fierce conviction. Lou is my friend, he’d once told me. He’d been willing to follow her to Chateau le Blanc before I had. He’d kept her secrets. Shouldered her burdens.

Guilt tore through me. Jagged and sharp.

Like it or not, Coco and I were friends.

Feeling stupid, I forced myself to speak. “All I’m saying is that after the Archbishop passed, it helped me to talk about it. About him. So . . .” I shrugged stiffly, neck hot. Eyes burning. “If you need to . . . to talk about it . . . you can talk to me.”

Now she did open her eyes. “The Archbishop was a sick fuck, Reid. Comparing him to Ansel is despicable.”

“Yeah, well”—I stared at her pointedly—“you can’t help who you love.”

She dropped her gaze swiftly. To my shame, her lip quivered. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do,” she said with a hint of her old bite. Fire lit her features. “I know it’s not my fault. Ansel loved me, and—and just because I didn’t love him the same way doesn’t mean I loved him any less. I certainly loved him more than you.” Despite her heated assurance, her voice cracked on the last. “So you can take your advice and your condescension and your pity, and you can shove them up your ass.” I kept my face impassive, refusing to rise. She could lash out. I could take it. Lurching to her feet, she pointed a finger at me. “And I won’t sit here and let you judge me for—for—” Her chest heaved on a ragged breath, and a single tear tracked down her cheek. When it fell between us, sizzling against the snow, her entire body slumped. “For something I couldn’t help,” she finished, so soft I almost didn’t hear.

Slowly, awkwardly, I rose to stand beside her. “I’m not judging you, Coco. I don’t pity you either.” When she scoffed, I shook my head. “I don’t. Ansel was my friend too. His death wasn’t your fault.”

“Ansel isn’t the only one who died that night.”

Together, we looked to the thin plume rising from her teardrop.

Then we looked to the sky.

Smoke obscured the setting sun, dark and ominous above us. Heavy. It should’ve been impossible. We’d been traveling for days. The skies here, miles and miles from Cesarine—where smoke still billowed from tunnel entrances, from the cathedral, the catacombs, the castle, from cemeteries and inns and alleyways—should’ve been clear. But the flame beneath the capital wasn’t simple fire. It was black fire, unnatural and unending, as if birthed from the bowels of Hell itself.

It was Coco’s fire.

A fire with smoke to envelop an entire kingdom.

It burned hotter than regular flame, ravaging both the tunnels and the poor souls trapped within them. Worse, according to the fisherman who’d accosted us—a fisherman whose brother happened to be an initiate of the Chasseurs—no one could extinguish the blaze. King Auguste contained it only by posting a huntsman at each entrance. Their Balisardas prevented the blight from spreading.

It seemed La Voisin had spoken truth. When I’d pulled her aside in Léviathan, before she’d fled to the forest with her surviving Dames Rouges, her warning had been clear: The fire rages with her grief. It will not stop until she does.

Toulouse, Thierry, Liana, and Terrance were trapped in those tunnels.

“It still isn’t your fault, Coco.”

Her face twisted as she stared at the statue of Saint Magdaleine. “My tears started the fire.” Sitting heavily, she folded her knees to her chest. Wrapped her arms around her shins. “They’re all dead because of me.”

“They aren’t all dead.” Immediately, my mind snapped to Madame Labelle. To her hemlock chains, her damp prison cell. To the king’s hard fingers on her chin. Her lips. Rage kindled my blood. Though it made me despicable, relief flickered as well. Because of Coco’s fire, King Auguste—my father—had more important things to deal with than my mother.

As if reading my thoughts, Coco said, “For now.”

Fuck.

“We have to go back,” I said gravely, the wind picking up around us. I imagined the scent of charred bodies in the smoke, of Ansel’s blood on the earth. Even armed with the Dames Rouges and loup garou—even armed with the Woodwose—we’d still lost. Once again, I was struck by the utter foolishness of our plan. Morgane would slaughter us if we marched alone on the Chateau. “Lou won’t listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to you. Deveraux and Blaise stayed behind to search for the others. We can help them, and afterward, we can—”

“They aren’t going to find them, Reid. I told you. Anyone left in those tunnels is dead.”

“The tunnels shifted before,” I repeated for the dozenth time, wracking my thoughts for something—anything—I could’ve missed in our previous arguments. If I persuaded Coco, she could persuade Lou. I was sure of it. “Maybe they shifted again. Maybe Toulouse and Thierry are trapped in a secure passage, safe and whole.”

“And maybe Liana and Terrance turn into house cats on the full moon.” She didn’t bother lifting her head, her voice dangerously apathetic once more. “Forget it, Reid. Lou is right. This has to end. Her way is as good as any—better, even. At least we’re moving forward.”

“What was the point of gathering allies, then?” I fought to keep the frustration from my voice. “We can’t kill Morgane on our own.”

“We clearly can’t kill her with allies either.”

“So we find new ones! We return to Cesarine, and we strategize with Deveraux—”

“What exactly are you expecting him to do? Who are these mysterious allies you hope to find? Shall Claud just . . . grow them on trees?” Her eyes hardened. “He couldn’t save Ansel in La Mascarade des Crânes. He couldn’t even save his own family, which means he can’t help us either. He can’t kill Morgane. Face it, Reid. This is our path forward. We can’t search Cesarine for ghosts.”

I unclenched my jaw. Heat worked up my throat. I didn’t know what to do. “My mother isn’t a ghost.”

“Your mother can take care of herself.”

“Her life—”

“—depends entirely on how adeptly she can lie.” Beau strolled toward us casually from the church’s kitchen, pointing a lazy finger at the smoke-filled sky. “Our father will be desperate to end this fire, even if he must enlist a witch to do it. As long as the clouds quite literally hang above our heads, your mother is safe. Apologies for eavesdropping, by the way,” he added. “I wanted to know if either of you had noticed my new beard.” He paused. “Also, Lou hasn’t blinked in half an hour.”

I frowned. “What?”

“She hasn’t blinked,” he repeated, dropping to the ground beside Coco and lifting a hand to her nape. His fingers kneaded gently. “Not once. She’s spent the last thirty minutes staring at the stained glass in silence. It’s unsavory. She even managed to frighten the priest away.”