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“At least once more, I’m afraid.” His grin sharpened to a knifepoint. “You are a lady, after all.”

I stalked across the field and down the hill, out of sight—away from him, away fromallof them—without another word. I knew it was pointless to argue with someone like Frederic.

You are a lady, after all.

Mimicking his asinine voice now, I finish the lock on the last cage and stand to admire my handiwork. Mud coats my boots. It stains six inches of my hem, yet a flicker of triumph still steals through my chest. It won’t be long now. The lutins in Farmer Marc’s barley will soon smell the willow sap and follow its scent. When they spy the wine, they will react impulsively—the books say lutins are impulsive—and enter the cages. The traps willswing shut, and we will transport the pesky creatures back to La Fôret des Yeux, where they belong.

Simple, really. Like stealing candy from a baby. Not that I’dactuallysteal candy from a baby, of course.

Exhaling a shaky sigh, I plant my hands on my hips and nod a bit more enthusiastically than natural. Yes. The mud and menial labor have most definitely been worth it. The stains will lift from my dress, and better yet—I’ll have captured and relocated a whole burrow of lutins without harm. Father Achille, the newly instated Archbishop, will be proud. Perhaps Jean Luc will be too. Yes, this isgood. Hope continues to swell as I scramble behind the weeds at the edge of the field, watching and waiting. This will be perfect.

This has to be perfect.

A handful of moments pass without movement.

“Come on.” Voice low, I scan the rows of barley, trying not to fidget with the Balisarda at my belt. Though months have passed since I took my sacred vow, the sapphire hilt still feels strange and heavy in my hands. Foreign. My foot taps the ground impatiently. The temperatures have grown unseasonably warm for October, and a bead of sweat trickles down my neck. “Come on, comeon. Where are you?”

The moment stretches onward, followed by another. Or perhaps three. Ten? Over the hill, my brethren hoot and holler at a joke I cannot hear. I don’t know how they intend to catch the lutins—none cared to share their plans with me, the first and only woman in their ranks—but I also don’t care. I certainly don’t need their help, nor do I need an audience after the cage fiasco.

Frederic’s condescending expression fills my mind.

And Jean Luc’s embarrassed one.

No.I push them both away with a scowl—along with the weeds—climbing to my feet to check the traps once more.I should never have used wine. What a stupid idea—

The thought screeches to a halt as a small, wrinkled foot parts the barley. My own feet grow roots. Rapt, I try not to breathe as the brownish-gray creature—hardly the height of my knee—sets his dark, overlarge eyes on the bottle of wine. Indeed, everything about him appears to be a bit too... well...too. His head too large. His features too sharp. His fingers too long.

To be quite frank, he looks like a potato.

Tiptoeing toward the wine, he doesn’t seem to notice me—or anything else, for that matter. His gaze remains locked on the dusty bottle, and he smacks his lips eagerly, reaching for it with those spindly fingers. The moment he steps into the cage, it shuts with a decisivesnap, but the lutin merely clutches the wine to his chest and grins. Two rows of needle-sharp teeth gleam in the sunlight.

I stare at him for a beat, morbidly fascinated.

And then I can no longer help it. I smile too, tilting my head as I approach. He isn’t anything like I thought—not repugnant at all, with his knobby knees and round cheeks. When Farmer Marc contacted us yesterday morning, the man raved abouthornsandclaws.

At last, the lutin’s eyes snap to mine, and his smile falters.

“Hello there.” Slowly, I kneel before him, placing my hands flat on my lap, where he can see them. “I’m terribly sorry about this”—I motion my chin toward the ornate cage—“but the manwho farms this land has requested that you and your family relocate. Do you have a name?”

He stares at me, unblinking, and heat creeps into my cheeks. I glance over my shoulder for any sign of my brethren. I might be wholly and completely ridiculous—and they would crucify me if they found me chatting with a lutin—but it hardly feels right to trap the poor creature without an introduction. “My name is Célie,” I add, feeling stupider by the second. Though the books didn’t mention language, lutins must communicatesomehow. I point to myself and repeat, “Célie.Say-lee.”

Still he says nothing. If he’s even aheat all.

Right. Straightening my shoulders, I seize the cage handle because Iamridiculous, and I should go check the other cages. But first— “If you twist the cork at the top,” I murmur grudgingly, “the bottle will open. I hope you like elderberries.”

“Are you talking to the lutin?”

I whirl at Jean Luc’s voice, releasing the cage and blushing. “Jean!” His name comes out a squeak. “I—I didn’t hear you.”

“Clearly.” He stands in the weeds where I hid only moments ago. At my guilty expression, he sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “What are you doing, Célie?”

“Nothing.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“An excellent question. Whydon’tyou believe—” But the lutin snakes out a hand before I can finish, snatching my own. With a shriek, I jerk and topple backward—not because of the lutin’sclawsbut because of hisvoice. The instant his skin touches mine, the strangest vocalization echoes in my mind:Larmes Comme Étoiles.

Jean Luc charges instantly, unsheathing his Balisarda between one stride and the next.