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“If anyone has earned three days of debauchery, it’s you.” Though she’s still grinning, Lou’s expression softens slightly asshe continues. “However, if you’d rather be alone tonight, we completely understand. Just say the word, and we’ll leave you to it.”

With the flick of her wrist and the sharp scent of magic, a cup replaces the sticky bun in my hand, and steam curls in perfect spirals from freshly steeped peppermint tea. With another flick, a glass flagon of honey appears in place of Reid’s flowers. “For your throat,” she says simply.

I glance down at them in wonder.

Though I’ve seen magic before, of course—both the good and the bad—it never ceases to amaze me.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words spill from me too quickly, too eagerly, but I can’t bring myself to pretend otherwise, instead lifting the tea and honey with a helpless shrug. “I mean—er, thank you, but I’m suddenly feeling much better.”

An evening of cards and pastries isexactlywhat I need after this wretched day, and I want to kiss Jean Luc square on the lips for offering it—except, of course, that I’ve just been horribly rude by refusing Lou’s gifts. Swiftly, I lift the teacup and swallow an enormous mouthful of the scalding liquid instead.

It blisters my throat on contact, and I nearly choke as the others sweep into the room.

Jean Luc thumps my back in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Gasping, I thrust the teacup onto my desk, and Lou pulls out a chair and forces me into it. “I just burned my tongue. Nothing to worry about—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “How can you properly enjoy chocolate éclairs with a burnt tongue?”

I eye the patisserie bag hopefully. “You brought chocolate—?”

“Of course I did.” Her gaze flicks to Jean Luc, who hoversbehind me with a rather mutinous expression. “I even brought canelé, soyoucan stop scowling at me now. If memory serves, you rather like rum,” she adds with a smirk.

Jean shakes his head vehemently. “I do notlikerum.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Captain.” With a sharp thumbnail, Coco pricks the tip of her pointer finger, drawing blood, and the scent of magic engulfs us once more. Unlike Lou and her Dames Blanches, who channel their magic from the land, Coco and her kin hold it within their very bodies. “Here.” She dabs the blood upon my own finger before pouring a drop of honey atop it. “Lou is right—nothing ruins everything like a burnt tongue.”

I don’t look at Jean Luc as I lift the blood and honey to my lips. He won’t approve, of course. Though the Chasseurs have made leaps and bounds in their ideology—led in no small part by Jean Luc—magic still makes him uncomfortable at the best of times.

The instant Coco’s blood touches my tongue, however, the blisters in my mouth heal.

Amazing.

“Better?” Jean Luc asks in a murmur.

Seizing his hand and pulling him away from the others, I smile so hard that my cheeks threaten to burst. “Yes.” I drop my voice to a whisper and gesture toward the desk, where Lou begins distributing pastries. Two for her, of course, and one for everyone else. “Thank you, Jean—for all of this. I know it isn’t typically how you spend your evenings, but I’vealwayswanted to learn how to play tarot.” I squeeze his fingers in palpable excitement now. “It really can’t besucha sin to gamble among friends, can it? Not when Lou brought canelé just for you?” Before he can answer, perhapsfearinghis answer, I twirl in his arms and rest my head against his chest. “Do you think she knows how to play tarot? Do you think she’ll teach us? I’ve never understood the trick-taking aspect, but between the two of us, surely we can figure it—”

Jean Luc, however, gently disentangles our bodies. “I have no doubt you will.”

I blink in confusion—then cross my arms quickly, cheeks warm. In all the excitement, I forgot that I still wear only a nightgown. “What do you mean?”

Sighing, he straightens his coat in an almost subconscious gesture, and my eyes instinctively follow the movement, landing on a peculiar lump in his chest pocket. Small and rectangular in shape, it appears to be some sort of... book.

Odd.

Jean Luc rarely visits me in the council library, and I’ve never considered him to be much of a reader.

Before I can ask, however, his gaze shies away from mine, and he says quietly, “I... can’t stay, Célie. I’m sorry. I have business to finish for Father Achille.”

Business to finish for Father Achille.

It takes a full second for the words to penetrate the haze of my thoughts, but when they do, my heart seems to shrink several sizes in my chest. Because I recognize that cloud of regret in his eyes. Because he won’t answer even if Idoask, and because I can’t bear the thought of one more secret between us. One more rejection.

An awkward silence descends between us instead.

“He expects you to finish this business during Mass?” I ask softly.

Jean Luc rubs the back of his neck in obvious discomfort. “Well, er—no. He thought I’d be attending the service this evening, actually, but he’ll understand—”