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“What does that matter?” He snatches the rose from my hand, and its thorn nicks my thumb. “You still did.”

Clenching my teeth to stop the tremble in my chin, I follow him deeper into the cemetery. Within two steps, however, a familiar hand seizes my own, and Jean Luc spins me to face him with a furious expression. “I don’t have time for this, Célie. I told you to return to Chasseur Tower.”

I tear my hand away from his, gesturing to the chaos around us. Tears sparkle in my eyes, and I hate that I cannot stop them. I hatethat Frederic can see them. I hate thatJeancan see them—hate that his own gaze begins to soften in response, just as it always does. “Why?” I burst out, choking back a sob.I will not cry.“All of the other huntsmen are here! They’re all here, and they’re all helping.” When he says nothing, simply stares at me, I force myself to continue, quieter now. Desperate. “Babette was my friend, Jean. You’re the captain of the Chasseurs. Let me help too.Please.”

At the last, he sighs heavily, shaking his head and closing his eyes as if pained. The huntsmen nearest us pause their tasks to listen as surreptitiously as possible, but I still see them—I stillfeelthem—and so does Jean Luc. “If you’re truly a Chasseur, you will obey my command. I told you to return to Chasseur Tower,” he repeats, and when his eyes snap open, they’ve hardened once more. His entire body has tensed taut as a bow—one pluck away from snapping—but I clench tighter still. Because when he leans low to meet my gaze, he is no longer Jean Luc, my fiancé and heart. No. He is Captain Toussaint, and I am insubordinate. “That’s an order, Célie.”

The words should be everything I’ve ever wanted.

They aren’t.

Snickers erupt somewhere to my left, but I ignore them, staring at Jean Luc for a single heartrending beat. It matches the tear trickling down my cheek. I said I wouldn’t cry, but I’m a liar too.

“Yes, Captain,” I whisper, wiping the tear away and turning on my heel. I don’t look at him again. I don’t look at Father Achille or Frederic or the dozens of other men who stop to witness my shame. Topityit. The ring on my finger feels heavier than usual as I walk back to Chasseur Tower alone. And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Idle time is my enemy.

Pacing in my dormitory, I lose track of it waiting for Jean Luc to return. With each step, anger sparks and spreads in that aching, empty part of my chest. It’s a welcome distraction. Anger is good. Anger is solvable.

We need to have a discussion, Jean Luc told me.

I nearly hiss in frustration at the dying embers of my hearth, picturing his stern face. He had the gall to—tosend me to my roomlike I’m not his soldier, not even hisfiancée, but an unruly child underfoot. All of my candles burn to stubs while I tread an impatient path on the carpet. Some gutter, and some flicker out completely. Though the rain has broken, clouds remain, casting the room in dull gray light. The shadows lengthen.

Go back to Chasseur Tower and wait for me in your room.

Wait for me in your room.

That’s an order, Célie.

“That’s an order, Célie,” I say through gritted teeth, wresting a useless stub from its candlestick and hurling it into the fire. The flames sizzle and snap gleefully, and the sight fills me with such savage delight that I wrench another stub free and fling it after the first. Then another. And another. And another andanotheruntil my chest heaves and my eyes stream and my head aches with the injustice of it all. Howdarehe order me to do anything aftermonthsof insisting on special treatment? After months of treating me like porcelain and handling me with kid gloves? How dare he expect me toobey?

“You can’t have it both ways, Jean.” Resolve hardening, I storm to my door and fling it open, relishing thecrashas it collides withthe corridor wall. I wait for one of my brethren to appear, to reprimand me for the noise, but none does. Of course they don’t. They’re far too busy being huntsmen—true and proper ones, not the kind who disobey their captain’s orders. After another second, I sigh and close the door with far gentler hands, muttering, “But they’ve made it clear I’m not a Chasseur. Not really.”

I creep through the empty corridors in search of Jean Luc.

Because he was right. Wedoneed to have a discussion, and I won’t wait another moment for it.

First, I check his room, knocking on the nondescript door across the Tower with confidence that borders on belligerence, but he doesn’t answer. After casting furtive looks down each end of the corridor, I slip the hairpin from my sleeve and pick the lock. An old trick I learned from my sister. The mechanism clicks open with ease, and I peer inside the room for only a moment before realizing he isn’t here—his bed remains pristine, untouched, and shutters cover his window, plunging everything in darkness. I retreat quickly.

When the cathedral bell tolls a moment later, signaling five o’clock in the evening, I quicken my step toward the training yard. Surely whatever kept Jean Luc should not have kept him forthree hours.

After searching the yard to no avail—and the stables, and the infirmary, and Father Achille’s study—I move on to the commissary. Itisdinnertime, after all. Perhaps Jean Luc hasn’t eaten today. Perhaps he thought to bring us both supper to defuse the tension. Only a handful of Chasseurs occupy the long wooden tables, however, and Jean Luc doesn’t sit among them. “Have you seen Captain Toussaint?” I ask the nearest one. The anxious knotin my stomach rises, lodging in my throat, when the young man refuses to meet my gaze. “Has he returned from the cemetery?”

Has something happened?

He spoons an enormous bite of potato into his mouth, delaying his reply. When he finally speaks, his voice is reluctant. “I don’t know.”

Though I try not to snap at him, Babette’s bloodless corpse rises in my mind’s eye—except now the body isn’t Babette at all, but Jean Luc. Twin wounds puncture his throat, and that beautiful, cold man looms over his grave, pale fingers clasped and bloody. When he grins at me, his teeth are strangely sharp. I force myself to remain calm. “Do you know where he is? Did he apprehend the suspect? Where is Father Achille?”

The Chasseur shrugs with a grimace and turns away pointedly, resuming conversation with his companion.

Right.

Unease mounting, I set out for the cemetery once more. Perhaps he hasn’t returned at all. Perhaps he found a clue—

As I turn the corner into the foyer, however, his voice rises sharply from the stairwell to the dungeon. I pause mid-step, relief crashing through my system.Of course.Jean Luc often frequents the council room in times of stress, poring over his notes, his manuscripts, anything to help clarify his thoughts. I dart down the stairs on silent feet, lifting a torch from the stone wall as I go. Another voice soon joins Jean Luc’s, however—sharper still, raised as if in anger—and I nearly stumble on the last step.

“And I’m tellingyou, Captain—for the sixth thousandth time—that this is not the work of blood witches.”