Ask me no questions, mon amour, and I’ll tell you no lies. Another half-formed memory. Useless. Broken.

Like a witch hunter who couldn’t kill a witch.

Truth or Dare

Lou

Halfway through our return to L’Eau Mélancolique, Célie fell asleep on her horse. Jean Luc—who’d succumbed to a stupor hours ago—hadn’t been able to catch her in time, and she’d plummeted face-first into the mud, bloodying her nose in the process. We’d quickly agreed a rest stop was necessary. Jean Luc had procured two rooms at the next inn, sneaking us in a back door under cover of darkness.

“I’ll be back with food,” he’d promised. Though smoke still obscured the night sky, it must’ve been between midnight and dawn. We’d made excellent time, all things considered—in and out of Chateau le Blanc in just over an hour. Still, few inns served supper at three in the morning. I suspected the sight of Jean Luc’s blue coat, however, might’ve helped the innkeeper forget the aberrant hour.

Coco, Célie, and I claimed one of the rooms for ourselves while we waited, and Reid and Beau disappeared into the one next door. Almost immediately, Célie collapsed facedown on the hay-filled mattress, her breath deepening and her mouth falling open. The trickle of drool on her pillow painted her the quintessential gentlewoman. Coco and I each tugged a boot from her foot.

“I don’t think I can make it to supper,” Coco said, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

My stomach growled audibly. “I can.”

“Save me some food, will you?”

I grinned as she flopped onto the bed beside Célie. It was a tight fit. Neither of them seemed to notice. “Will do.”

Jean Luc edged the door open a few moments later, carrying a tray of dried figs, brioche, and comté. From the silver tureen at its center, the heavenly scent of beef stew drifted outward, curling around my nose. I immediately began to salivate, but he stopped short when he saw Coco and Célie. Lifting a finger to my lips, I plucked the fruit, bread, and cheese from the tray and left it on the table beside the bed. I motioned him back into the hallway, hesitating for only a second before breaking off a piece of cheese.

I loved cheese.

“They’re exhausted.” Closing the door behind me, I popped the morsel into my mouth and nearly moaned. “They can eat when they wake.”

Though clearly irritated at the prospect of dining with me and not Célie, Jean Luc nodded and led me into the men’s room. Beau had lit a candelabra on the dressing table, and it cast soft, ambient light over the sparse furnishings: a single bed, as in our room, and a porcelain bowl for washing. The entire place had a worn yet welcoming atmosphere, probably aided by the colorful quilt on the bed and warm wooden floors.

“The girls are asleep,” Jean Luc grunted, kicking the door shut.

“Should I be insulted?” I pirouetted onto the bed, landing dramatically across Beau’s lap. He sat with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him, taking up more than his fair share of space. Snorting, he shoved me off the bed.

“Yes.”

Unperturbed, I crossed the room to investigate the contents of the tureen, but Jean Luc knocked my hand aside. Ladling it into cracked wooden bowls, he jerked his chin behind him. “Go wash, for the love of God. Your hands are filthy.”

Unfortunately, Reid stood beside the washbowl. He scowled as I approached, shifting subtly so as not to touch me. When I accidentally splashed him with water, he stalked to the other side of the room. “If we leave after breakfast, we’ll reach L’Eau Mélancolique this afternoon,” I said to no one in particular. Jittery energy coursed through me as I accepted my stew, and I inhaled it greedily—standing over the basin like a rat—to stop from filling the dead air between us. If this was the inner sanctum of masculinity, I wanted no part of it.

My eyes slid to Reid.

Well. I wanted little part of it.

We ate in silence until none of the stew remained. Then a light knock sounded on the door.

“Captain Toussaint?” a thin, unfamiliar voice asked. Jean Luc’s eyes flew wide, and he wheeled to face us, mouthing, The innkeeper. “My humblest apologies, but might I enter for just a moment? My wife scolded me for my appalling lack of manners below, and she’s quite right. I have a bottle of whiskey as recompense—we distill it here with my brother’s own wheat”—his voice rose with pride—“and I’d be delighted to pour you a drink personally.”

“Er—” Jean Luc cleared his throat. “Just—just leave it at the door.”

It sounded like a question.

“Oh.” It was a gift of this innkeeper, surely, to pack so much disappointment into one small word. “Oh, well, yes. Quite right. How rude of me. It is very late, of course, and I’m sure you need your rest. My humblest apologies,” he said again. The bottle plunked against the door. “Good night, then, Captain.”

His footsteps didn’t recede. I could almost picture him hovering in the corridor beyond, perhaps leaning an ear against the wood, hoping the great captain would pity him and change his mind. Reid and I exchanged an anxious glance.

As if on cue, Jean Luc groaned quietly. “Er—Monsieur Laurent?” He shot us an apologetic look before hastily stacking our bowls and chucking them behind the washbasin. My eyes narrowed in disbelief. Surely he couldn’t mean to—? “I’d love a drink. Please, come in.”

Reid, Beau, and I could do nothing but scramble for hiding places, except the room held very little. As the smallest of the three, I dove beneath the bed. As the stupidest, Beau crouched behind the dressing table in plain sight. And Reid, unable to find another spot—not at all small but perhaps stupider than even Beau—rolled under the bed after me, snaking an arm around my waist to prevent me from spilling out the other side. The movement squashed my face against his chest, and I reared back, clutching his collar furiously. What the hell is wrong with you?

He rolled to his back, glaring at me, as Monsieur Laurent strode into the room.

“Oh, you can’t imagine how pleased Madame Laurent will be, Captain, to know you’re tasting our whiskey. She’ll be ever so pleased. Thank you, thank you.”

Reid’s enormous body blocked my view of the room, so slowly, carefully, I leaned over his chest, peering out from across his shoulder. He held very still. He might’ve even stopped breathing.

Monsieur Laurent was a tall, reedy fellow in his nightclothes and slippers, and he fussed with two tumblers at the dressing table. Jean Luc shifted covertly to hide Beau. “I am honored to taste it, monsieur. Thank you again for providing us lodging at such an untimely hour. My companion sleeps in the next room,” he added, accepting the proffered glass of amber liquid. He sipped it quickly.

“I must say”—Monsieur Laurent sampled his own glass, leaning against the table with the air of a man getting comfortable—“I was quite shocked to see you on my doorstep, Captain.” He chuckled. “Well, I don’t have to tell you, do I? Apologies again for the less than warm welcome. One can never be too safe these days. The witches are getting bolder, and they’re thick in these parts. You should hear the ghastly sounds of the forest at night.” Shuddering, he readjusted his nightcap, revealing a high, balding forehead. Despite his casual tone, beads of nervous sweat gleamed there. He feared Jean Luc. No—my eyes narrowed shrewdly—he feared Jean’s blue coat. “Anyway, I assumed most Chasseurs would be in Cesarine with the conclave.” He took another hearty drink of whiskey. “I assume you heard news of the trials?”