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Her brow furrows as she reaches out to examine it. “Where?”

“Babette had it. She held it in her hands.” When she drops her own hand, mystified, I extend the chain more insistently. It isn’t right for me to keep it any longer. Despite the overwhelming,inexplicable urge to keep the necklace close, it doesn’t belong to me, and it’ll do no good hidden in my pocket. “Take it. Perhaps it’ll help you locate the killer.”

She stares at it. “You kept it from Jean Luc?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I lift a helpless shoulder, unable to give a true answer. “It just... didn’t feel right, giving it to him. He didn’t know Babette. If you don’t need it for the investigation, perhaps you could take it to Coco. She might... appreciate such a token.”

For another long moment, Lou considers the cross, considersme, before carefully pooling the heavy piece in her hand and slipping it back into my pocket. Relief surges through me. It cracks the ice in my chest. “You should trust your instincts, Célie,” she says gravely. “Babette didn’t worship the Christian god. I don’t know why she carried this cross with her when she died, but she must’ve had a reason. Keep it close.”

My instincts.

The words fragment between us, as black and bitter as the Brindelle trees.

“Thank you, Lou.” I swallow hard in the silence. Then— “You were supposed to understand.”

Though she stiffens slightly at my words, the rest spill from my lips in a sickening torrent that I cannot stop. That I cannot slow. They burst through the crack in my chest, shattering the ice, leaving only sharp, jagged peaks in their wake. “You were there through all of it. You pulled me from my sister’s casket. You—you wiped herremainsfrom my skin. You followed me into thosetunnels toward Morgane, and you watched me walk back out of them unscathed.”

“No oneleft those tunnels unscathed—”

“Alive, then,” I say fiercely, turning to face her now. “After everything, you watched me leave those tunnelsalive. You watched me claw and bite and scratch my way to the surface, and you watched me plunge that injection into Morgane’s thigh.You.Not Jean Luc, not Coco, not Reid or Beau or Frederic.” My voice grows thicker beneath the flood of grief, ofrageand regret and resentment and... and defeat. “The others, they—they see me as someone who needs protection, who needs a—a glass box and a polished pedestal on the highest shelf, butyouwere supposed to see me differently.” Voice breaking, I push up Coco’s sleeve to show her the emerald ribbon still tied around my wrist. “You were s-supposed to be myfriend, Lou. Ineededyou to be my friend.”

As soon as the words fall, I regret them. Because Louismy friend—and Jean Luc is my fiancé—and everyone in that council room knows better than me, wants tohelpme. Perhaps I deserve to be treated like a child. I’ve certainly stamped my feet and screamed like one.

Lou stares down at the ribbon for a long moment.

To my distress, she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t argue or patronize or reprimand; she doesn’t tell me not to worry or not to cry, nor does she sigh and escort me back to the safety of my room. No. Instead, she takes my hand and squeezes firmly, looking me directly in the eye as the sun slips beneath the river. Glittering powder swirls around us as another branch breaks. “You’re right, Célie,” she says. “I am so sorry.”

Seven magic words.

Seven perfect blows.

“Wh-What?” I say, breathless with them.

“I said I’m sorry. I wish I could explain myself somehow, but I have no excuse. I should’ve told you everything from the start—how you proceeded with it should’ve beenyourdecision, not mine. And certainly not Jean Luc’s.” Her lips twist as if in memory of something, and my heart sinks in realization. She would’ve heard our argument in the library.Everyonewould have heard it. Heat blooms in my cheeks as she adds, “He’s anass, by the way, and has no idea what he’s talking about. If you hadn’t been here”—she gestures around us to the Brindelle trees, and her cloak pulls with the movement, revealing the scar along her collar—“Morgane would’ve slitmythroat. Again. I would’ve died that day, and even Reid wouldn’t have been able to bring me back a third time.” A wicked gleam enters her eyes as an idea sparks, followed by a wickeder grin. “Do you want me to curse him for you? Jean Luc?”

I chuckle tremulously and pull her toward the wide, cobbled street in front of the town house. An enormous bridge intersects it, spanning the great fissure that split the kingdom in two during the Battle of Cesarine. The Chasseurs—along with hundreds of volunteers—laid the final stone last month. Beau and the royal family held a festival in honor of the occasion, unveiling a plaque at the bridge’s entrance that reads:Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir.

Father Achille chose the words, a cautionary tale to all who cross.

It is better to prevent than to heal.

I reach out to trace the letters as we pass. There is nothing more to see here, and furthermore, Lou spoke truth—we’re freezing offour delectable assets, and our hair now smells of fish. “As much as I’d like to see him squirm, Jean Luc is under a lot of pressure right now. A curse might rather compound things. Ido, however, give you full permission to curse himafterwe find this murderer.”

Lou groans theatrically. “Are you sure? Not even a small one? I camethisclose to dyeing his hair blue last year. Or perhaps we could shave off an eyebrow. Jean Luc would lookridiculouswithout an eyebrow—”

“In fairness, anyone would look ridiculous without an eyebrow.”

Chuckling again, I lift Coco’s hood to cover my still-damp head. When Lou slips her arm through my elbow in response, forcing me tosashayrather than walk across the bridge, that torrent in my chest slows to a trickle—until the cross clinks against the ring in my pocket. A reminder.

My heart sinks once more.

In the distance, Saint-Cécile’s bell clangs slow and deep, and Chasseur Tower looms like a shadow behind the cathedral, baleful and imposing in the darkness. There’s nothing for it. At the bridge’s end, I gently disentangle my arm from Lou’s. “I should go. Jean Luc and I need to... finish our discussion.”

She glances pointedly at my bare finger, arching a brow. “Really? It looks finished to me.”