Page 2

Chapter One

Empty Cages

I will catch this repugnant little creature if it kills me.

Blowing a limp strand of hair from my forehead, I crouch again and readjust the mechanism on the trap. It took hours to fell the willow tree yesterday, to plane the branches and paint the wood and assemble the cages. To collect the wine. It took hours more to read every tome in Chasseur Tower about lutins. The goblins prefer willow sap to other varieties—something about its sweet scent—and despite their crude appearance, they appreciate the finer things in life.

Hence the painted cages and bottles of wine.

When I hitched a cart to my horse this morning, loading it full of both, Jean Luc looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Perhaps I have lost my mind.

I certainly imagined the life of a huntsman—a hunts woman —being somewhat more significant than crouching in a muddy ditch, sweating through an ill-fitting uniform, and luring a crotchety hobgoblin away from a field with alcohol.

Unfortunately, I miscalculated the measurements, and the bottles of wine did not fit within the painted cages, forcing me to disassemble each one at the farm. The Chasseurs’ laughter still lingers in my ears. They didn’t care that I painstakingly learned to use a hammer and nails for this project, or that I mutilated my thumb in the process. They didn’t care that I bought the gold paint with my own coin either. No, they saw only my mistake. My brilliant work reduced to kindling at our feet. Though Jean Luc hastily tried to help reassemble the cages as best we could—scowling at our brethren’s witty commentary—an irate Farmer Marc arrived soon after. As a captain of the Chasseurs, Jean needed to console him.

And I needed to handle the huntsmen alone.

“Tragic.” Looming over me, Frederic rolled his brilliant eyes before smirking. The gold in his chestnut hair glinted in the early sun. “Though they are very pretty, Mademoiselle Tremblay. Like little dollhouses.”

“Please, Frederic,” I said through gritted teeth, scrambling to collect the pieces in my skirt. “How many times must I ask you to call me Célie? We are all equals here.”

“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 from all of 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 will swing shut, and we will transport the pesky creatures back to La F?ret des Yeux, where they belong.

Simple, really. Like stealing candy from a baby. Not that I’d actually steal 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 is good . 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, come on . 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 decisive snap , 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 about horns and claws .

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 man who 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 communicate somehow . I point to myself and repeat, “Célie. Say-lee. ”

Still he says nothing. If he’s even a he at all.

Right. Straightening my shoulders, I seize the cage handle because I am ridiculous, 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. Why don’t you 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’s claws but because of his voice . 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.

“No, wait!” I fling myself between him and the caged lutin. “ Wait! He didn’t hurt me! He meant no harm!”

“Célie,” Jean Luc warns, his voice low and frustrated, “he could be rabid—”

“ Frederic is rabid. Go wave your knife at him.” To the lutin, I smile kindly. “I beg your pardon, sir. What did you say?”

“He didn’t say anything—”

I shush Jean Luc as the lutin beckons me closer, extending his hand through the bars. It takes several seconds for me to realize he wants to touch me again. “Oh.” I swallow hard, not quite relishing the idea. “You—yes, well—”

Jean Luc grips my elbow. “Please tell me you aren’t going to touch it. You have no idea where it’s been .”

The lutin gestures more impatiently now, and—before I can change my mind—I stretch out my free hand, brushing his fingertips. His skin there feels rough. Dirty. Like an unearthed root. My name , he repeats in an otherworldly trill. Larmes Comme étoiles.

My mouth falls open. “Tears Like Stars?”

With a swift nod, he withdraws his hand to clutch his wine once more, glaring daggers at Jean Luc, who scoffs and tugs me backward. Near light-headed with giddiness, I twirl into his arms. “Did you hear him?” I ask breathlessly. “He said his name means—”

“They don’t have names.” His arms tighten around me, and he bends to look directly in my eyes. “Lutins don’t speak, Célie.”

My gaze narrows. “Do you think I’m a liar, then?”

Sighing again— always sighing—he sweeps a kiss across my brow, and I soften slightly. He smells like starch and leather, the linseed oil he uses to polish his Balisarda. Familiar scents. Comforting ones. “I think you have a tender heart,” he says, and I know he means it as a compliment. It should be a compliment. “I think your cages are brilliant, and I think lutins love elderberries.” He pulls back with a smile. “I also think we should go. It’s getting late.”

“Go?” I blink in confusion, leaning around him to peer up the hill. His biceps tense a little beneath my palms. “But what about the others? The books said a burrow can hold up to twenty lutins. Surely Farmer Marc wants us to take them all.” My frown deepens as I realize my brethren’s voices have long faded. Indeed, beyond the hill, the entire farm has fallen still and silent, except for a lone rooster’s crow. “Where”—something hot like shame cracks open in my belly—“where is everyone, Jean?”

He won’t look at me. “I sent them ahead.”

“Ahead where ?”

“To La F?ret des Yeux.” He clears his throat and steps backward, sheathing his Balisarda before smiling anew and bending to pick up my cage. After another second, he offers me his free hand. “Are you ready?”

I stare at it as a sickening realization dawns. He would have sent them ahead for only one reason. “They’ve... already trapped the other lutins, haven’t they?” When he doesn’t answer, I glance up at his face. He gazes back at me carefully, warily , as if I’m splintered glass, one touch away from shattering. And perhaps I am. I can no longer count the spider web cracks in my surface, can no longer know which crack will break me. Perhaps it’ll be this one.

“Jean?” I repeat, insistent.

Another heavy sigh. “Yes,” he admits at last. “They’ve already trapped them.”

“ How? ”

Shaking his head, he lifts his hand more determinedly. “It doesn’t matter. Your cages were a brilliant idea, and experience will come with time—”

“That isn’t an answer.” My entire body trembles now, but I cannot stop it. My vision narrows on the cleanly bronze skin of his hand, the brilliant sheen of his close-cropped dark hair. He looks perfectly composed—albeit uncomfortable—while my own strands stick to my neck in disarray and sweat trails down my back. Beneath the mud, my cheeks flush with exertion. With humiliation. “How did they trap an entire burrow of lutins in—” Another horrible thought dawns. “Wait, how long did it take them?” My voice rises in accusation, and I point a finger at his nose. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

Tears Like Stars manages to uncork the bottle, downing half the wine in one swallow. He stumbles as Jean Luc gently returns his cage to the ground. “Célie,” Jean Luc says, his voice placating. “Don’t do this to yourself. Your cage worked , and this one—this one even told you his name. That hasn’t ever happened before.”

“I thought lutins didn’t have names,” I snap. “And do not condescend to me. How did Frederic and the others trap the lutins? They’re too fast to catch by hand, and—and—” At Jean Luc’s resigned expression, my face falls. “And they did catch them by hand. Oh God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, each breath coming faster, sharper. My chest tightens to the point of pain. “I—I should’ve helped them, but these traps—” The golden paint leers at me now, tawdry and gauche. “I wasted everyone’s time.”

You are a lady, after all.

“No.” Jean Luc shakes his head fiercely, gripping my filthy hands. “You tried something new, and it worked.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes at the lie. All I’ve done for the last six months is try—try and try and try . I lift my chin, sniffing miserably while forcing a smile. “You’re right, of course, but we shouldn’t leave just yet. There could still be more out there. Perhaps Frederic missed a few—”

“This is the last of them.”

“How can you possibly know if this is the last—?” I close my eyes as my mind finally catches up. When I speak again, my voice is quiet. Defeated. “Did you send him to me?” He does not answer, and his silence damns us both. My eyes fly open, and I seize his royal-blue coat, shaking it. Shaking him . “Did you catch him first, only to—to sneak over here and release him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“ Did you?”

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—an urgent one—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.