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“Listen to me, Jean.Listen.” My hand slips to his belt as I speak, my fingers wrapping around the hilt of his Balisarda. He stiffens at the contact, but he doesn’t stop me. His eyes snap to my face, narrowing, and when I nod almost imperceptibly, his own hand replaces mine. He trusts me implicitly. Though I may not be the strongest or fastest or greatest of his Chasseurs, Iamintuitive, and the man behind us is dangerous. He’s also involved in Babette’s death somehow. Iknowhe is.

“He murdered her,” I breathe. “I think he murdered Babette.”

That’s all it takes.

In a single, fluid motion, Jean Luc spins me behind him and unsheathes his Balisarda, but when he charges forward, the man is already gone. No, not gone—

Vanished.

If not for the withered crimson rose where he once stood, he might’ve never existed at all.

Chapter Seven

A Liar, After All

The next hour descends into absolute chaos.

Chasseurs and constabulary alike spill through the streets—searching for the cold man—while another dozen recover Babette’s body from the cemetery and inspect the grounds for signs of foul play. I clutch her cross tightly within the pocket of my skirt. Ishouldturn it over to Jean Luc, yet my fingers—still ice cold and trembling—refuse to relinquish its ostentatious silver edges. They score my palm as I dart after him, determined to join the proceedings. Determined tohelp. He hardly looks at me, however, instead shouting orders with brutal efficiency, directing Charles to find Babette’s next of kin, Basile to alert the morgue of her arrival, Frederic to collect the dead roses as evidence. “Take them to the infirmary,” he tells the latter in a low voice, “and send word to La Dame des Sorcières via His Majesty—tell her we need her assistance.”

“I can go to Lou!” In stark contrast to his unshakable facade, my voice sounds loud, panicked, even to my own ears. I clear my throat and try again, clenching Babette’s cross to the point of pain. “That is, I can contact her directly—”

“No.” Jean Luc shakes his head curtly. He still doesn’t look at me. “Frederic will go.”

“But I can reach her much faster—”

“I saidno, Célie.” His tone brooks no argument. Indeed, his eyes harden as they at last sweep my wet hair, my soiled gown, my sparkling ring, before he turns away to address Father Achille, who arrives with a band of healers. When I don’t move, he pauses, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Go to Chasseur Tower and wait for me in your room. We need to have a discussion.”

We need to have a discussion.

The words sink in my stomach like bricks.

“Jean—”

Shouts sound as wide-eyed passersby gather at the cemetery gate, craning to see Babette’s body through the tumult. “Go, Célie,” he snarls, flicking his hand toward three passing Chasseurs. To them, he says, “Take care of the pedestrians.” They reroute their paths instantly, and I glare at him. Atthem. Forcing myself to breathe, I release Babette’s cross and hurry after their broad, blue-coated backs. Because I can speak to a crowd just as easily as they can. I can build lutin traps, alphabetize the council library, andalsoassist in a murder investigation. Though I left my coat and Balisarda at home, I am still a Chasseur; I ammorethan Jean Luc’s pretty little fiancée, and if he thinks otherwise—ifanyof them think otherwise—I’ll prove them wrong here and now.

Mud flecks my hem as I sprint to match their pace, reaching for the slowest’s arm. “Please, allow me—”

He jerks away with an impatient shake of his head. “Go home, Célie.”

“But I—”

The words die on my tongue as the crowd disbands after a few terse words from his companions.

Not only am I unwanted here, but I am also useless.

My chest feels like it’s caving in.

“Move,” Frederic mutters irritably, brushing me aside when he turns—arms already full of roses—and nearly treads on my foot. His eyes linger on my gown, and his lip curls in distaste. “You’ve abandoned the pretense, at least. Good riddance.” He stalks to my cart without another word, depositing the roses within it.

“Wait!” I race after him through the cemetery gate. I will not cry here.I will not cry.“Why don’t you collect the roses on the north side? I’ll do the ones on the south—”

His scowl only deepens. “I think you’ve done enough for one day, Mademoiselle Tremblay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I came here on Father Achille’s orders—”

“Oh?” Frederic bends to retrieve another rose from the ground. I snatch one near his feet before he can stop me. “Did Father Achille also order you to tamper with the crime scene and fraternize with a person of interest?”

“I—” If possible, my stomach sinks further, and I inhale sharply at the accusations. “Wh-What are you talking about? I couldn’t justleaveher there. She was— I didn’t tamper with—I didn’tmeanto tamper with anything.”