They both stared at her with such warm affection—such adoration—that my heart twisted. I did not envy her this choice. And Beau . . . he wasn’t even here to offer his handsome, sneering face as an alternative. Taking pity on her, I turned her shoulders to face me. “They’re right. You’re doing everything you can to help them now. When Morgane is dead—when I—afterward, your people will be welcome in the Chateau again. We just need to keep focus.” Though she nodded swiftly, instinctively, her face remained grim. “I’m not sure she’ll join us, Lou. She—” A scream overpowered the rest of her words, and Ismay bolted through the crowd, face wild. “Where is Gabrielle? Where is she?” She whirled, shrieking, “Gabrielle!” Though hands reached out to her—though La Voisin herself attempted to calm her with steady words and soothing touches—Ismay ignored them all, darting toward me with frantic eyes. She gripped my arms hard enough to bruise. “Have you seen my daughter?” Panic closed my throat. “I—” “Could she have followed the feu follet?” Placing a hand on Ismay’s, Coco tried and failed to pry me free. “When was the last time you saw her?” Tears spilled down Ismay’s cheeks, peppering the snow with black flowers. Begonias. I’d learned their meaning from a naturalist tutor at the Chateau. “I—I don’t remember. She was with me during the procession, but I let go of her hand to finish Etienne’s pot.” Beware. They meant beware. “Don’t panic,” another witch said. “This isn’t the first time Gabrielle has run off. It won’t be the last.” “I’m sure she’s fine,” another added. “Overwhelmed, perhaps. So much grief is hard on one so young.” “We were all right here,” said a third, voicing what everyone else was thinking. “Surely none could have stolen her from the heart of our coven. We would have seen.” “They’re right.” Coco finally succeeded in loosening Ismay’s grip, and blood rushed back into my arms. “We’ll find her, Ismay.” When she looked at me, however, her eyes said what her mouth did not: one way or another. I only half listened as the blood witches spread out across the grove in search of her. I knew in my bones what had happened here. Morgane must’ve rejoiced when she’d discovered not one but two of the king’s children hidden in this camp. Her timing, as always, had been unerring. She’d planned this. Twenty-seven children, Madame Labelle had said. The king had sired twenty-seven children at her last count. Surely finding them would be like finding needles in a haystack. But Morgane was nothing if not tenacious. She would find them, she would torture them, and she would kill them. And it was all because of me. “Look here!” an unfamiliar witch cried after several long moments. Every person in the clearing turned to stare at what she held in her hands. A scarlet ribbon. And there—staining the witch’s palms on contact— Blood. I closed my eyes in defeat. The memory of Etienne’s head on my boot soon rose up to meet me, however, forcing them open once more. It would be Gabrielle’s head next. Even now—at this very second—Morgane could be mutilating her tiny body. She would shear her auburn braid and slice her pale throat— Ismay’s cries turned hysterical, and the others soon took up her panicked call. Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Her name echoed within the grove, between the trees. Inside my mind. As if in response, the feu follet flickered out one by one, leaving us in darkness. Despite their frantic attempts to conjure a tracking spell, they knew her fate as well as I did. We all knew. Gabrielle didn’t answer. She never would. At long last, Ismay fell to her knees, weeping, pounding the snow in anguish. I wrapped my arms around my waist, doubling over against the nausea, but a hand caught my nape, forcing me upright. Cold, dark eyes met my own. “Compose yourself.” La Voisin’s grip hardened. When I tried to wriggle away, biting back a cry of pain, she watched me struggle with grim determination. “Your wish has been granted, Louise le Blanc. The Dames Rouges will join you in Cesarine, and I myself will rend your mother’s beating heart from her chest.”
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The First Performance