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The exhilaration in my chest twisted slightly at her words, andgooseflesh erupted down my neck at the stroke of my sister’s brush. I scooted to the edge of my seat, eyes wide. “Do they really?”

“Of course they don’t.” Pip dropped her brush on the armoire with more force than necessary. With the sternest of expressions, she turned my chin to face her. “Don’t listen to her, Célie. Shelies.”

“I most certainly do not,” Evangeline said emphatically. “I’ll tell you the same as my mother told me—Les Éternels stalk the streets by moonlight, preying on the weak and seducing the immoral. That’s why we always sleep at nightfall, darlings, and always say our prayers.” When she continued, her lyrical voice rose in cadence, as familiar as the nursery rhyme she hummed every evening. Her needlesclick click clicked in the silence of the room, and even the wind fell still to listen. “Always wear a silver cross, and always walk in pairs. With holy water on your neck and hallowed ground your feet. When in doubt, strike up a match, and burn them with its heat.”

I sat up a little straighter. My hands trembled. “I always say my prayers, Evangeline, but I drank all of Filippa’s milk at dinner while she wasn’t looking. Do you think that made me sweeter than her? Will the bad people want to eat me?”

“Ridiculous.” Scoffing, Pippa threaded her fingers through my hair to replait it. Though she was clearly exasperated, her touch remained gentle. She tied the raven strands with a pretty pink bow and draped it over my shoulder. “As if I’d ever let anything happen to you, Célie.”

At her words, warmth expanded in my chest, a sparkling surety. Because Filippa never lied. She never snuck treats or played tricks or said things she didn’t mean. She never stole my milk.

She would never let anything happen to me.

The wind hovered outside for another second—scratching at the panes once more, impatient for the rest of the story—before passing on unsatisfied. The sun slipped fully beneath the skyline as an autumn moon rose overhead. It bathed the nursery in thin silver light. The beeswax candles seemed to gutter in response, lengthening the shadows between us, and I clasped my sister’s hand in the sudden gloom. “I’m sorry I stole your milk,” I whispered.

She squeezed my fingers. “I never liked milk anyway.”

Evangeline studied us for a long moment, her expression inscrutable as she rose to return her needles and wool to the basket. She patted Birdie on the head before blowing out the tapers on the mantel. “You are good sisters, both of you. Loyal and kind.” Striding across the nursery, she kissed our foreheads before helping us into bed, lifting the last candle to our eyes. Hers gleamed with an emotion I didn’t understand. “Promise me you’ll hold on to each other.”

When we nodded, she blew out the candle and made to leave.

Pip wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I nestled into her pillow. It smelled like her—like summer honey. Like lectures and gentle hands and frowns and snow-white scarves. “I’ll never let the witches get you,” she said fiercely against my hair. “Never.”

“And I’ll never let them getyou.”

Evangeline paused at the nursery door and looked back at us with a frown. She tilted her head curiously as the moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging us into total darkness. When a branchclawed at our window, I tensed, but Filippa wrapped her other arm around me firmly.

She didn’t know, then.

I didn’t know either.

“Silly girls,” Evangeline whispered. “Who said anything about witches?”

And then she was gone.

Chapter One

Empty Cages

I will catch this repugnant little creature if it kills me.

Blowing a limp strand of hair from my forehead, I crouch again and readjust the mechanism on the trap. It tookhoursto fell the willow tree yesterday, to plane the branches and paint the wood and assemble the cages. To collect the wine. It took hoursmoreto read every tome in Chasseur Tower about lutins. The goblins prefer willow sap to other varieties—something about its sweet scent—and despite their crude appearance, they appreciate the finer things in life.

Hence the painted cages and bottles of wine.

When I hitched a cart to my horse this morning, loading it full of both, Jean Luc looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Perhaps Ihavelost my mind.

I certainly imagined the life of a huntsman—a huntswoman—being somewhat more significant than crouching in a muddy ditch, sweating through an ill-fitting uniform, and luring a crotchety hobgoblin away from a field with alcohol.

Unfortunately, I miscalculated the measurements, and the bottles of wine did notfitwithin the painted cages, forcing me to disassemble each one at the farm. The Chasseurs’ laughter still lingers in my ears. They didn’t care that I painstakingly learned to use a hammer and nails for this project,orthat I mutilated mythumb in the process. They didn’t care that I bought the gold paint with my own coin either. No, they saw only my mistake. My brilliant work reduced to kindling at our feet. Though Jean Luc hastily tried to help reassemble the cages as best we could—scowling at our brethren’s witty commentary—an irate Farmer Marc arrived soon after. As a captain of the Chasseurs, Jean needed to console him.

And I needed to handle the huntsmen alone.

“Tragic.” Looming over me, Frederic rolled his brilliant eyes before smirking. The gold in his chestnut hair glinted in the early sun. “Though they areverypretty, Mademoiselle Tremblay. Like little dollhouses.”

“Please, Frederic,” I said through gritted teeth, scrambling to collect the pieces in my skirt. “How many times must I ask you to call me Célie? We are all equals here.”