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“Come now.” Rolling up his sleeves, Frederic crouches and gestures to my uniform. To my surprise, the black ink of a tattoo marks the skin of his inner forearm. Though I can just see the first two letters—FR—the rain renders his shirt nearly translucent, revealing the shape of a name. “Does it not feel like you’re playing dress-up?” he asks.

Come here, so I may shatter you.

“As opposed towhat?” I shove at him, gritting my teeth, but he remains immovable. “Tattooing my name on my arm, so no one forgets who I am?”

Voices erupt from the armory door before he can answer, and we turn in unison—Frederic poised above me, my body supinebelow—as Jean Luc strides into the training yard, accompanied by three women in powder-blue coats.Initiates.Though the rain has thickened to a downpour, Jean’s eyes find mine immediately, widening for a fraction of a second. Then his expression darkens. His mouth twists as another bolt of lightning strikes the cathedral, as Charles’s companion appears at his shoulder. “What the hell is going on here?” he asks, already stalking toward us.

Frederic doesn’t move except for a pleasant smile. “Nothing to report, I’m afraid. Just a little friendly sparring.”

Jean Luc unsheathes his Balisarda with thinly veiled menace. “Good. Let’s spar, then.”

“Of course, Captain.” Frederic nods amicably. “As soon as we’ve finished.”

“Youarefinished.”

“No, we’re not.” I pant the words, jerking my head side to side, splattering mud in all directions. Though water fills my ears, a terrible ringing sound remains. My vision narrows on Frederic’s smug expression, and my hands curl into fists. “Let me finish this, Jean.”

“Let me finish this, Jean,” Frederic mimics, too soft for anyone else to catch. Chuckling, he brushes a strand of hair from my eyes. The gesture is too personal, tooprivate, and my skin crawls with awareness as Jean Luc shouts something I cannot hear. The ringing sound in my ears intensifies. “Admit that you embarrass him, and I’ll let you go.”

It doesn’t matter who you’re up against, Célie—everyone has a groin somewhere.

I react instinctively,viciously, kicking the soft flesh between his legs with a satisfyingcrunch.

His eyes fly wide, and perhaps I’ve miscalculated because he doesn’t topple backward—he topplesforward, and I can’t scramble away before he lands on top of me, howling and cursing and wrenching the dagger from my hand. He presses it to my throat in blind fury. “You littlebitch—”

Jean Luc seizes him by the collar and launches him across the training yard, his eyes as black as the sky overhead. Lightning flashes all around us. “How dareyouassault one of our own? And Célie Tremblay at that?” He doesn’t allow Frederic to slink away, instead charging after him, slamming him into the nearest archery target. Despite Frederic’s scowl, despite hissize, Jean Luc shakes him roughly. “Do you have any idea what she’s done for this kingdom? Do you have any idea what she’ssacrificed?” Dropping Frederic like a sack of potatoes, he appeals to the rest of the training yard now, pointing his Balisarda in my direction. I climb hastily to my feet. “This woman brought downMorgane le Blanc—or do you no longer remember our Dame des Sorcières of old? Have you already forgotten her reign of terror in this kingdom? The way she cut down man, woman, and child in her mad quest for vengeance?” He speaks again to Frederic, whose lip curls as he bitterly wipes the mud from his coat. “Well?Haveyou?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he snarls.

The Chasseurs stand frozen throughout the yard. They dare not move. They dare notbreathe.

The initiates still huddle together near the armory, wide-eyed and soaked through. Their faces are unfamiliar. New. I stand taller for them—and also forme. Though humiliation still burns in my chest, a tendril of pride unfurls as well. Because Lou and Ididbring down Morgane le Blanc last year, and we did it together. We did it for good.

“Excellent.” Jean Luc sheathes his Balisarda roughly as I creep to his side. He does not look at me. “If I ever see anything like this again,” he promises us, his voice lower now, barely discernible, “I’ll personally appeal to Father Achille for the perpetrator’s immediate dismissal from the Chasseurs. We are better than this.”

Frederic spits in disgust as Jean Luc takes my hand, as he leads me past the initiates and into the armory. He doesn’t stop there, however. He continues until we reach a broom closet near the kitchen, growing more and more agitated with each step. When he pushes me inside without a word, my stomach sinks.

He leaves the door cracked for propriety’s sake.

Then he drops my hand.

“Jean—”

“We agreed,” he says tersely, closing his eyes and scrubbing his face. “We agreed you wouldn’t train with the others. We agreed not to put ourselves in that position again.”

“Put ourselves inwhatposition?” That tendril of pride in my chest withers into something ashen and dead, and I wring the water from my hair in a brutal, punishing twist. I cannot keep the tremor from my voice, however. “Myposition? Chasseurs are expected to train, are they not? Preferably together?”

Frowning, he plucks a towel from the shelf and hands it to me. “If you want to train,Iwill train you. I’vetoldyou this, Célie—”

“You can’t keep giving me special treatment! You don’t havetimeto train me, Jean, and besides—Frederic has a point. It isn’t fair to expect everything from them and nothing from me—”

“I don’t expectnothingfrom you—” He stops speaking abruptly, his frown deepening as I wipe the muck from my neck, my collarbone, my throat. His jaw clenches. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

He steps closer, cupping my jaw and tilting my head to examine my throat. “Frederic. That bastard broke your skin. I swear to God, I’ll make him muck stables for ayear—”

“Captain?” An initiate pokes his head into the closet. “Father Achille needs to speak to you. He says there’s been a critical development with the—” But he stops short when he sees me, startling at the sight of us alone together. At the sight of ustouching. Jean Luc sighs and moves away.