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“Didyou?”

Averting his gaze, he disentangles himself with firm hands. “I don’t have time for this, Célie. I have an urgent council meeting before Mass this evening, and Father Achille has already sent word—he needed me back at the Tower hours ago.”

“Why is that?” I try and fail to keep the tremor from my voice. “And what—what urgent council meeting? Has something happened?”

It is an old question. A tired one. For weeks now, Jean Luc has slipped away at odd moments, fervently whispering with Father Achille when he thinks I can’t see. He refuses to tell me why they whisper under their breaths, why their faces grow darker each day.They have a secret, the two of them—anurgentone—but whenever I ask about it, Jean Luc’s answer remains the same: “It doesn’t concern you, Célie. Please don’t worry.”

He repeats the words like clockwork now, jerking his chin toward our horses. “Come on. I’ve loaded the cart.”

I follow his gaze to the cart in question, where he stacked my cages in neat rows while I chatted with Tears Like Stars. Nineteen in all. The twentieth he carries as he marches around the field without another word. Tears Like Stars—thoroughly drunk now—slumps against the bars, snoring softly in the late afternoon sunshine. To anyone else, the scene might seem charming. Quaint. Perhaps they would nod approvingly at the silver medal on my bodice, the diamond ring on my finger.

You don’t need to wield a sword to protect the innocent, Célie.Jean Luc’s old words drift back to me on the autumn breeze.You’ve proven that more than anyone.

Time has proven us all liars.

Chapter Two

Pretty Porcelain, Pretty Doll

For the first time in six months, I skip evening Mass. When Jean Luc knocks promptly on my door at half past seven—our chaperone curiously absent—I feign sickness. Also a first. I don’t lie as a rule, but tonight, I can’t bring myself to care.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I—I think I caught a chill earlier.” Coughing against my elbow, I lean into the dim corridor, careful to keep my body concealed. It wouldn’t do for him to see me in my nightgown—ivory silk trimmed in lace. One of the many silly, impractical things I brought from my parents’ home in West End. Though it doesn’t protect me from the icy drafts of Chasseur Tower, itdoesmake me feel more like myself.

Besides, Jean Luc insisted on a room with a fireplace when I moved into the dormitories.

My cheeks still heat at the memory. Never mind this is theonlyroom with a fireplace in the dormitories.

“Are you all right?” His face twists with concern as he reaches through the gap to check my perfectly normal temperature. “Should I send for a healer?”

“No, no”—I clasp his hand, removing it from my forehead as casually as possible—“peppermint tea and an early night should do the trick. I just turned down the bed.”

At the mention of my bed, he withdraws his hand like I’vescalded him. “Ah,” he says, straightening and stepping back with an awkward cough. “That— I’m sorry to hear it. I thought maybe you’d want to—but—no, you should most definitely go to sleep.” Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he shakes his head at something I cannot see and clears the rasp from his throat. “If you don’t feel better in the morning, just say the word. I’ll delegate your responsibilities.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Jean.” I lower my voice, resisting the urge to peer around him into the corridor. Perhaps a chaperone has accompanied him, after all. A heavy sort of disappointment settles over me at the thought, but ofcoursehe brought a chaperone along—as he should. I would never ask him to risk our reputations or our positions by visiting alone at night. “I can catalog the council library with a cough.”

“Just because youcandoesn’t mean you should.” He hesitates with a tentative smile. “Not when Frederic is perfectly healthy and knows his alphabet.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to return his smile—because my failure with the lutins this morning wasn’t his fault, not truly, and a chaperone for the next six months isn’t either. Indeed, thanks to Jean Luc and our brethren, the lutins reached La Fôret des Yeux unharmed, and Father Marc will be able to harvest his barley in peace. Everyone wins.

Which means I must’ve inadvertently won too.

Right.

Throwing caution to the wind, I rest a light hand against his chest, where my engagement ring sparkles between us in the candlelight. “We both know you won’t delegate my responsibilities if I stay in bed. You’ll do them yourself—and you’ll do thembeautifully—but you can’t keep covering for me.” When I lean closer instinctively, he does too, his gaze falling to my lips as I whisper, “You aren’t just my fiancé, Jean Luc. You’re my captain.”

He swallows hard, and the motion fills me with a peculiar sort of heat. Before I can act on it—like I’d even knowhowto act on it—his gaze flicks over his shoulder once more, and I imagine our chaperone crossing his arms with a scowl. Instead of a pointed cough, however, an amused voice fills the corridor.

An amused,familiarvoice.

“Do you want us to leave?” The freckled face of Louise le Blanc—otherwise known as La Dame des Sorcières, or the Lady of the Witches—appears over Jean Luc’s shoulder. With an impish grin, she raises her eyebrows at my expression. “You know what they say about... six being a crowd.”

I blink at her in disbelief. “What do you meansix?”

“Nonsense,” says another voice from behind her. “Seven is a crowd, not six.”

If possible, Lou grins wider. “You speak rather definitively on the subject, Beauregard. Would you like to share with the class?”

“He probablywouldlike that.” My eyes widen further as Cosette Monvoisin, leader of the Dames Rouges—the smaller, deadlier faction of witches in Belterra—elbows her way past Jean Luc to stand before me. With a grudging sigh, Jean steps aside and flings the door open to reveal Beauregard Lyon, thekingof all Belterra, and his half brother, Reid Diggory, standing behind him.