He didn’t answer me right away, but I felt his eyes upon my face. I sensed his deliberation. I said nothing more, however, watching as Toulouse gestured to the crystal ball. The woman extended her hand instead, and Toulouse traced the lines on her palm. Her withered mouth lifted in a smile.
At long last, Thierry sighed.
Then—impossibly—I heard a voice in my head. An actual voice. Like Toulouse’s, but softer. Exceedingly gentle.
Toulouse and I grew up in the streets of Amandine.
I should’ve been surprised, but I wasn’t. Not after everything I’d seen. After everything I’d done. Part of me rejoiced at having been right—Toulouse and Thierry St. Martin had magic. The other part couldn’t celebrate. Couldn’t do anything but study the elderly woman in Toulouse’s tent. With each stroke of his fingers, the woman seemed to grow younger, though her features never changed. Her skin rosier. Her eyes clearer. Her hair brighter.
We stole what we needed to survive. Thierry too watched his brother help an old woman feel beautiful again. At first, we were only pickpockets. A couronne here and there to purchase food, clothing. But it was never good enough for Toulouse. He eventually set his sights on wealthier marks—comtes, marquises, even a duc or two.
He gave me a mournful smile. By then, Toulouse had learned real wealth didn’t come from stolen trinkets, but from knowledge. We stole secrets instead of gems, sold them to the highest bidder. It didn’t take long for us to gain a reputation. A man named Gris eventually recruited us to join his crew. He sighed then, looking down at his hands. Toulouse and Gris got into an argument. Toulouse threatened to spill his secrets, and Gris retaliated by cutting out my tongue.
I stared at him in horror. “He cut out your tongue.”
In response, Thierry slowly opened his mouth, revealing a hollow circle of teeth. At the back of his throat, the stump of his tongue moved uselessly. Bile rose in my own throat. “But you did nothing. Why were you punished?”
The streets are cruel, huntsman. You’re lucky you never knew them. They change you. Harden you. The secrets, the lies necessary to survive . . . they aren’t easily unlearned. His eyes flicked back to his brother. I don’t hold Toulouse responsible for what happened. He did what he felt was necessary.
“He’s the reason you don’t have a tongue.”
Gris knew the best way to keep my brother silent was to threaten me. And it worked. The night I lost my voice is the night he lost his. Toulouse has been a secret keeper ever since. And a better man.
Unable to wrap my head around such fortitude—such acceptance, such steady calm—I changed courses. “You said you lost your voice, yet I can hear it clearly in my mind.”
We found our magic that night—and I’d already paid the price of silence. Our ancestors allowed me to communicate a different way.
That caught my attention. “You didn’t know you had magic?”
To my surprise, it wasn’t Thierry who answered. It was Deveraux. He ambled toward us from the scarlet wagon, hands in his pinstriped pockets. His paisley coat gaped open over a shirt riddled with polka dots, and the peacock feather in his hat bounced with each step. “Tell me, Reid, if you’d never seen the color red, would you know what it looks like? Would you recognize it on that cardinal?” He gestured to the roof of the boulangerie, where a crimson bird had perched. As if sensing our attention, it took flight.
“Er . . . no?”
“And do you think it could fly if it spent its entire life believing it couldn’t?”
At my frown, he said, “You’ve spent a lifetime subconsciously repressing your magic, dear boy. Such an undertaking is not easily undone. It seems only the sight of your wife’s lifeless body was powerful enough to release it.”
My eyes narrowed. “How do you know who I am?”
“You’ll soon find out I know a great deal of things I shouldn’t. A rather obnoxious corollary of making my acquaintance, I’m afraid.”
Thierry’s laughter echoed inside my mind. It’s true.
“And . . . and you?” I asked, throwing caution to the winds. He knew who I was. What I was. There was no sense pretending otherwise. “Are you a witch, Monsieur Deveraux?”
“From one honest man to another?” He gave a cheery wink and continued toward the square. “I am not. Does that answer your question?”
A nagging sensation pricked the back of my skull as he disappeared into the crowd.
“No, it doesn’t,” I muttered bitterly. The old woman rose to leave as well, drawing Toulouse into a bone-crushing hug. If I hadn’t seen her transformation myself, I would’ve sworn she was a different person. When he kissed her cheek in return, she blushed. The gesture—so innocent, so pure—twisted sharp in my chest. Combined with Deveraux’s enigmatic exit, I felt . . . off balance. Adrift. Such magic wasn’t done. This—all of this—it wasn’t right.
Thierry’s hand came down on my shoulder. You see magic as a weapon, Reid, but you’re wrong. It simply . . . is. If you wish to use it for harm, it harms, and if you wish to use it to save . . . Together, we looked to Toulouse, who tucked a flower behind the woman’s ear. She beamed at him before rejoining the crowd. It saves.
Part II
Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire.
When the wine is drawn, one must drink it.
—French proverb
Red Death and His Bride, Sleep Eternal
Reid
Zenna’s necklace—large, gold, its diamond pendant the size of my fist—battered my face as she leaned over my hair. She’d lathered her hands in a putrid paste to style the waves. I pushed her necklace away irritably. Eyes stinging. If I tossed her kohl out of the wagon, would she notice?
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, swatting my hand away from the death stick.
Beau had conveniently disappeared when Zenna brought forth her pouch of cosmetics. I hadn’t seen my mother since we’d parked in this field, either. The villagers of Beauchêne, a hamlet on the outskirts of La Fôret des Yeux, had constructed an actual stage for troupes passing through—much different from the town squares and pubs in which we’d been performing. They’d set it up here this afternoon. Merchant and food carts had followed. As the sun gradually slipped out of sight, laughter and music drifted into the amber wagon.
My chest ached inexplicably. Six days had passed since my first performance. Beauchêne was the last stop on Troupe de Fortune’s official tour. Within Cesarine, Deveraux and his actors would disappear into the catacombs beneath the city, where the privileged of society mingled with the dregs. Uninhibited, wanton, and masked.
La Mascarade des Crânes, Madame Labelle called it.
The Skull Masquerade.
I’d never heard of such a spectacle. She hadn’t been surprised.
Deveraux finished buttoning his vest. “A little more volume on top if you please, Zenna. Ah, yes. That’s the ticket!” He winked at me. “You look resplendissant, Monsieur Red Death. Absolutely resplendent—and as you well should! Tonight is a special night, indeed.”
“It is?”
Zenna’s eyes narrowed to slits. She wore an emerald gown this evening—or perhaps purple. It shimmered iridescent in the candlelight. She’d painted her lips black. “Every night is a special night on the stage, huntsman. If you’re bored out there, the audience will be able to tell. A bored audience is a tightfisted audience, and if they don’t tip me because of you, I’m going to be upset.” She leveled her gilded brush at my face. “You don’t want me to be upset, do you?”
I pushed her brush aside slowly. She brought it right back. “You’re always upset,” I said.
“Oh, no.” She flashed a menacing grin. “You haven’t seen me upset.”
Deveraux chuckled as the voices outside grew louder. The shadows longer. “I do not imagine anyone will be bored tonight, sweet Zenna.”
When they shared a meaningful look, I frowned, certain I’d missed something. “Has there been a change of schedule?”
“How very a
stute.” He flicked my horned mask to me, waggling his brows. “As it so happens, dear boy, you are the change of schedule. Tonight, you shall replace Seraphine and me as Troupe de Fortune’s opening act.”
“And you’d better not foul it up,” Zenna warned, threatening me with her hairbrush once more.
“What?” I narrowed my eyes as I slipped on my mask. “Why? And where is my mother?”
“Awaiting you, of course. Never fear, I have already alerted her to the change in schedule. Beau is affixing her to the board as we speak.” His eyes glittered with mischief. “Shall we?”
“Wait!” Zenna pulled me back to her cot and carefully arranged a lock of hair over my mask. When I stared at her, bewildered, she shoved me toward the door. “You’ll thank me later.”
Though there was nothing inherently suspicious in her words—in either of their words—my stomach rolled and fluttered as I stepped from the wagon. The sun had almost set, and anticipation thrummed in the evening air. It shone in the faces of those nearest me. In how they bounced on their toes, turned to whisper to their neighbors.
My frown deepened.
Tonight was different.
I didn’t know why—I didn’t know how—but I felt it.
Still grinning like a cat with cream, humming under his breath, Deveraux ushered me to the stage. A wooden square in the center of the field. Lanterns flickered along its perimeter, casting faint light on the hard-packed snow. On the coats and scarves and mittens. Someone had turned my throwing board away from the audience. I couldn’t see my mother, but Beau stood slightly apart, bickering with her. I moved to join them.
Deveraux caught my arm. “Ah, ah, ah.” He shook his head, spinning me forward and stripping me of my cloak simultaneously. I scowled. Then shivered. Eyes bright with excitement, the crowd watched me expectantly, clutching goblets of mead and spiced wine. “Are you ready?” Deveraux murmured. Instinctively, I checked the knives in my bandolier, the sword strapped down my back. I straightened my mask.
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” He cleared his throat then, and a hush fell over the field. He spread his arms wide. His smile spread wider. “Lords and ladies, butchers and bakers, plebeians and patricians—bonsoir! Salutations! Drink up, drink up, if you please, and allow me to kindly express my deepest gratitude for your hospitality.” The crowd cheered. “If you delight in our performances this evening, please consider gifting the actors a small token of appreciation. Your generosity enables Troupe de Fortune to continue providing Beauchêne with that which we all love—unbridled frivolity and wholesome entertainment.”
I glanced down at my leather pants.
Wholesome.
As if reading my mind, someone in the crowd catcalled. Ears burning, I squinted in their general direction, but in the semidarkness, I couldn’t discern the culprit. Just shadows. Silhouettes. A shapely woman and lanky man waved back at me. Scoffing, I looked away and—
My eyes flew open.
“Hear me, all, and hear me true!” Deveraux’s voice rang out, but I hardly heard him, inching closer to the stage’s edge, searching for the familiar woman and man. They’d disappeared. My heartbeat pounded thunderously in my ears. “Honored guests, tonight and tonight only, we shall witness a singular experience on this stage. A wholly and completely new act, a saga—a paragon—of dangerous intrigue and deadly romance.”
New act? Alarmed, I caught his eye, but he only winked, striding past me to the throwing board. Beau grinned and stepped aside. “And now, without further ado, I present to you our very own Mort Rouge”—Deveraux gestured to me before wheeling the board around— “and his bride, Sommeil Éternel!”
My jaw dropped.
Strapped to the board, Lou grinned back at me. White butterflies—no, moths—covered the upper corner of her face, their wings disappearing into her pale hair. But her dress . . . my mouth went dry. It wasn’t a dress at all—more like strands of spider silk. Gossamer sleeves trailed down her shoulders. The neckline plunged to the curve of her waist. From there, the delicate fabric of the skirt—sheer, shredded—blew gently in the wind, revealing her legs. Her bare legs. I stared at her, transfixed.
Deveraux coughed pointedly.
My face burned at the sound, and I moved without thinking, tearing my cloak from his hands as I went. Lou snorted when I lifted it to shield her, to cover all that smooth, golden skin—
“Hello, Chass.”
Blood roared in my ears. “Hello, wife.”
She glanced behind me, and this close, her grin seemed . . . arranged, somehow. Fixed. At my frown, she smiled all the brighter, lashes fluttering against the silver dust on her cheeks. Perhaps she was just tired. “We have an audience.”
“I know.”
She eyed my hair, following it to the line of my jaw before straying to my throat. My chest. My arms. “I have to admit,” she said with a wink, “the eyeliner works for me.”
My stomach contracted. Unsure whether I was angry or ecstatic or—or something else—I stepped closer, tossing the cloak aside. Another step. Close enough now to feel the warmth emanating from her skin. I pretended to check the straps on her wrists. Trailed my fingers down the inside of her thighs, her calves, to tighten the ones on her ankles. “Where did you get this dress?”
“Zenna, of course. She likes beautiful things.”
Of course. Fucking Zenna. Still, relief quickly overwhelmed my disbelief. Lou was here. She was safe. Slowly, I dragged my gaze up to hers, lingering at her mouth, before rising. “What are you doing here?” When she moved her chin toward Ansel and Coco, who now hovered beside the stage, I shook my head, interrupting. “No. You. What are you doing strapped to this board? It’s too dangerous.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” Her smile stretched farther. “And only actors ride in the wagons.”
“I can’t throw knives at you.”
“Why not?” When my frown deepened, she wriggled her hips against the board. Distracting me. Always trying to distract me. “Have I exaggerated your prowess?”
Reluctantly, I took a step back. “No.”
Her eyes gleamed wicked. “Prove it.”
I don’t know what made me do it. Perhaps it was the open challenge in her grin. The feverish flush on her cheeks. The hushed whispers of the audience. Unsheathing a knife from my Balisarda, I walked backward, tossing it in the air and catching it with a muted thud. Before I could rethink—before I could hesitate—I hurled it at the board.
It embedded deep in the wood between her legs. The whole board reverberated from the impact.
The crowd roared their delight.
And Lou—she dropped her head back and laughed.
The sound filled me, bolstered me, and the audience fell away. There was only Lou and her laugh. Her smile. Her dress. “Is that it?” she called. I drew another knife in response. And another. And another. Flinging them faster and faster as I closed the distance between us, kissing the lines of her body with each blade.
When I’d thrown the last, I rushed forward, breathless with my own adrenaline. I wrenched the knives from the wood amidst the audience’s applause. “How did you reach us so quickly?”
She dropped her head on my shoulder. Her own still shook. “Not magic, if that’s what you’re asking. Your Sleep Eternal hasn’t slept in a week.”
“And did you—did you get the alliance?”
Lifting her face, she grinned anew. “We did.”
“How?”
“We—” Something shifted in her eyes, in her smile, and she planted a kiss on the sensitive skin between my neck and shoulder. “It was Coco. You should’ve seen her. She was brilliant—a natural leader. It took her no time at all to convince her aunt to join us.”
“Really?” I paused in pulling another knife free. “La Voisin wouldn’t even let me enter her camp. How did Coco persuade her to work with us so quickly?”
“She just—the advantages of an alliance outweighed the disadvantages. That’s all.”
“But she would’ve known the advantages beforehand.” A shard of confusion pierced my thoughts. Too late, I realized Lou had tensed in the straps. “She still refused.”
“Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe someone enlightened her.”
“Who?”
“I already told you.” Her smile vanished now, and her expression hardened abruptly, all pretenses gone. “It was Coco. Coco enlightened her.” When I balked at her tone, drawing back, she sighed and looked away. “They’re meeting us in Cesarine in two days. I thought you’d be happy.”
My brows furrowed. “I am happy, it just—”
It doesn’t make sense.
Something had happened at the blood camp. Something Lou wouldn’t tell me.
When she finally returned my gaze, her eyes were unreadable. Carefully blank. Controlled. Like she’d pulled shutters between us, blocking me out. She jerked her chin to my knives. “Are we done here?”
As if he’d been listening, Deveraux descended upon us, his gaze darting across the audience. “Is something wrong, poppets?”
I tugged the last knife from the wood, struggling to keep my voice even. “Everything is fine.”
“Shall—shall we continue with the grand finale, then?”
Walking backward once more, I drew the sword from its sheath down my spine. “Yes.”
A ghost of a smile touched Lou’s lips. “Aren’t you going to set it on fire?”
“No.” I stared at her, thinking hard, as Deveraux wrapped the blindfold around my mask. My eyes. Without my vision, I saw another scene clearly within my mind. The dust. The costumes. The blue velvet. I smelled the cedar wood and oil lamps. I heard her voice. I’m not hiding anything, Reid.
It had snowed that evening. Her hair had been damp beneath my fingertips. If you aren’t comfortable enough to tell me, it’s my fault, not yours.
Lou was keeping secrets again.
I forced myself to focus, to listen as Deveraux pulled the handle, and the board began to move. With each soft whisk, I counted its rotation, established its speed, visualized the location of Lou’s body in relation to each spin. I’d been nervous throwing this sword at my mother the first time, but I’d known trust was critical to success. I had to trust her, and she had to trust me.
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