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It doesn’t concern you, Célie.

Please don’t worry.

Exceptnothingseems to concern me, according to Jean Luc, and Idoworry—I worry enough to avoid my brethren, to sneak into the training yard at five o’clock in the morning. After my first bout in the yard all those months ago, I quickly realized my skills as a huntsman lay... elsewhere.

Like building traps?

Rubbing my eyes, I scowl and sidle up to the first of the straw men.

If my dream last night proved anything, it’s that I cannot go home. I cannot go back. I can only go forward.

“Right.” I narrow my eyes at the unpleasant effigy, widening my stance as I’ve seen men do. My skirt—heavy blue wool—blows slightly in the wind. Rolling my neck, I hold the staff out in front of me with both hands. “You can do this, Célie. It’s simple.” I nod and bounce on the balls of my feet. “Remember what Lou told you. Eyes”—I swipe my stick for good measure—“ears”—I swipe again, harder this time—“nose”—another swipe—“and groin.”

Mouth twisting determinedly, I lunge with a vicious jab,prodding the man in the stomach. The straw doesn’t give, however, and my momentum drives the opposite end of the staff intomystomach instead, knocking the wind from me. I double over and rub the spot gingerly. Bitterly.

Applause sounds from the armory door. I almost miss it amidst the rumble of thunder overhead, but the laughter—I can’t mistake that. It belongs tohim. Cheeks blazing crimson, I whirl to find Frederic strolling toward me, flanked on either side by a handful of Chasseurs. He smirks and continues to applaud, each clap of his hands slow and emphatic. “Bravo, mademoiselle. That was brilliant.” His companions chuckle as he slings an arm across my straw man’s shoulders. He doesn’t wear his coat this morning, just a thin linen shirt against the chill. “Much better than last time. A marked improvement.”

Last time I tripped on my hem and nearly broke my ankle.

Thunder reverberates around us once more. It echoes my black mood. “Frederic.” I stoop stiffly to retrieve my staff. Though large in my hand, it looks small and insignificant compared with the longsword in his. “How are you this morning? I trust you slept well?”

“Like a babe.” He grins and plucks the staff from me when I move to turn away. “I must admit that I’m curious, though. What are you doing here, Mademoiselle Tremblay? It didn’t sound as if you slept well.”

So much for pretending.

Gritting my teeth, I struggle to keep my voice even. “I’m here to train, Frederic, same as you. Same as all of you,” I add, casting my brethren a pointed look. They don’t bother to avert their gazes, to blush or busy themselves elsewhere. And why should they? I’mtheir greatest source of entertainment.

“Areyou?” Frederic’s grin stretches wider as he examines my staff, rolling it between his calloused fingers. “Well, we hardly train with shoddy old staffs, mademoiselle. This scrap of wood won’t debilitate a witch.”

“The witches don’tneedto be debilitated.” I lift my chin to glare at him. “Not anymore.”

“No?” he asks, arching a brow.

“No.”

A Chasseur across the yard—a truly unpleasant man by the name of Basile—drops from the top of a notched post. He raps his knuckles against it before calling, “Only two scraps of wood will do that! A stake and a match!” He guffaws as if he’s just told an enormously funny joke.

I glare at him, unable to bite my tongue. “Don’t let Jean Luc hear you.”

Now he does avert his gaze, muttering petulantly, “Take it easy, Célie. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, how silly of me. You’re hilarious, of course.”

Chuckling, Frederic tosses my staff to the mud. “Don’t worry, Basile. Jean Luc isn’t here. How could he know unless someone tells him?” He flips his longsword and catches it by the blade before thrusting the handle toward me. “But if you really want to train with us,Célie, by all means, I’d like to help.” Lightning forks over Saint-Cécile, and he raises his voice to be heard over the thunder. “We all would, wouldn’t we?”

Something stirs in his eyes at the question.

Something stirs in the yard.

I take a tentative step backward, glancing at the others, whostalk steadily closer. Two or three have the decency to look uncomfortable now. “That—that won’t be necessary,” I say, forcing a deep breath. Forcing calm. “I can just spar with the straw man—”

“Oh, no, Célie, that won’t do.” Frederic shadows my steps until my back presses into another straw man. Panic skitters up my spine.

“Leave her alone, Frederic.” One of the others, Charles, shakes his head and steps forward. “Let her train.”

“Jean Luc will crucify us if you hurt her,” his companion adds. “I’ll spar with you instead.”

“Jean Luc”—Frederic speaks smoothly, casually, unperturbed except for the hard glint in his eyes—“knows his pretty little fiancée doesn’t belong here. What doyouthink, Célie?” He offers me the longsword once more, tilting his head. Still grinning. “Do you belong here?”