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“Thankyou for that, Cosette.” I can practically hear Jean Luc’s scowl as he drags a chair from the table, its legs scraping thecouncil room floor, and throws himself in it. “And of course Célie is still a Chasseur. I can hardly discharge her.”

I inhale sharply.

“So where is she?” Lou asks.

“Her dormitory.” Though I cannot see Lou’s and Coco’s expressions, Jean Luc can. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. This investigation is highly classified, and even if it weren’t—we can’t fit every Chasseur inside this room.”

“You fithim.” Coco sounds supremely unimpressed, but her words do little to bolster me. My fingers tremble around the torch, and my knees threaten to give way.I can hardly discharge her.Jean Luc has never admitted such a thing aloud before—at least not in front of me. “Célie is twice as sharp as the rest of us,” Coco says. “She should be here.”

“You can’t keep this from her forever, Jean,” Lou says.

“She found the body.” Even Reid’s quiet assurance does nothing to steady me. “She’s involved now, whether you like it or not.”

I think I’m going to be sick.

“You don’t understand.” Frustration harshens Jean Luc’s voice, and that emotion—that knife in my chest—slides deeper still, straight through my ribs and into my heart. “Noneof you understand. Célie is—she’s—”

“Delicate,” Frederic finishes, dripping condescension. “Rumor has it she’s been through a lot.”

She’s been through a lot.

I can hardly discharge her.

“She still screams every night. Did you know that?” Jean Luc asks them, and I don’t imagine the defensiveness in his tone. “Nightmares. Horrible, vivid nightmares of being trapped insidethat casket with her sister’s corpse. What Morgane did to her—she should’ve died. She keeps candles lit around the clock now because she fears the dark. She flinches when anyone touches her. I can’t”—he hesitates, his voice deepening with resolve—“Iwon’tallow any more harm to come to her.”

A beat of silence descends between them.

“That might be true,” Lou says softly, “but if I know Célie, you’ll cause more harm by keeping this secret. What if this had been her instead of Babette? What if we were discussinghercorpse right now?” Then, softer still, “She deserves to know the truth, Jean. I know you want to protect her—we all do—but she needs to know the danger. It’s time.”

It’s time.

The words pound in rhythm with my heart as my blood continues to pour, spilling freely, from that wound in my chest.It never healed, I realize. It never healed after Pippa, after Morgane, and now my friends—these people I love most in the world, these people Itrusted—have torn it wide open again. But anger is good. Anger is solvable.

Without hesitation, I shove the door open and storm inside.

Chapter Eight

A Magical Number

Every eye turns toward me, but I don’t hesitate, marching straight to where Jean Luc sits in the center of the room. He nearly falls out of his chair in his haste to rise. “Célie!” Around us, the others draw back, averting their gazes to stare at their boots, the candles, the sheafs of loose paper that litter the council table. A charcoal sketch of Babette’s corpse lies on top. “What—what are you doing here? I told you—”

“To wait in my room. Yes, I’m aware.”

Part of me relishes the panic in his expression. The rest immediately regrets charging in here to—what, exactly? Witness their betrayal up close and personal? Because they’re all here. Every single one of them. Even Beau stands frozen in the corner, looking distinctly undignified with his mouth agape. Though he didn’t discuss my position, my past, myhurtwith the rest of them, his presence still makes him complicit. His silence certainly does. At my accusatory stare, he pushes away from the wall. “Célie, we—”

“Yes?” I snap.

“We—” Steps faltering, he glances helplessly at Lou and Coco, who both watch me with wary eyes. I refuse to look at either of them. “How are you?” he finishes lamely, lifting a hand to rub his neck. Coco elbows his ribs.

I glare at him.

The most powerful players in the kingdom, all gathered together in one room.

All discussing my fate.

“I don’t suppose you, er”—he drops his hand in resignation—“did you—did you happen to hear all that?”

Stiff-necked, I stalk to the circular table to examine the other sketches. No one dares stop me. “Yes.”