“Your salvation,” Lou had said, stuffing my bedroll into my pack. “Look, he saved our asses tonight. He could’ve let us die, but he didn’t. He obviously doesn’t wish us harm, which is more than we can say about anyone else—and no one will think to look for you in a troupe of actors. You’ll be hidden without magic.”

She hurried down the hill toward Saint-Loire now. The others followed. I lingered behind, glancing back at the forest’s edge. A single snowflake fell from the sky—still thick and heavy with clouds—and landed on my cheek. An eerie silence fell over the forest in its wake. Like the calm before the storm. As I turned away, two luminescent eyes reflected in my periphery. Large. Silver. I spun, the hair on my neck rising, but there was nothing except trees and shadows.

I strode after the others.

Actors bustled around the village square, hauling trunks, instruments, and props in preparation for departure. Claud Deveraux directed them. He flitted to and fro, clapping his hands in delight. As if there were nothing bizarre about packing in the dead of night, nor leaving before a storm.

Lou hesitated in the alley, watching. We all stopped with her.

“What is it?” I murmured, but she shushed me as Claud Deveraux spoke.

“Come, Zenna!” He bounded toward a plump woman with lavender hair. “We must depart before sunrise! Dame Fortune favors only those who begin their journeys under the new moon!”

I blinked more snowflakes from my eyes.

“Right,” Zenna muttered, tossing an instrument into the smaller wagon. She wore a peculiar cloak. Deep purple. Perhaps blue. It glittered with what looked like stars. Constellations. “Except Dame Fortune abandoned Cesarine years ago.”

“Ah, ah.” Monsieur Deveraux waggled his finger at her reprovingly. “Never despair. Perhaps she will join us there.”

“Or perhaps we’ll be burned at the stake.”

“Absurdité! The people of Cesarine need their spirits lifted. Who better to lift them than we? Soon, we shall whisk the patrons of La Mascarade de Crânes away to a world of frivolity and fantasy.”

“Brilliant.” Zenna pinched the bridge of her nose. Though her coloring resembled Coco’s, her skin was scarless. She might’ve been attractive, but heavy cosmetics—kohl around her eyes, rouge on her lips—hid her true features.

“Seraphine and I deserve three percent of the cover to make this worth our while, Claud,” she continued. “We’re walking straight into Hell for this funeral, flames and all.”

“Of course, of course.” He waved his hand, already turning away to hurrah another actor. “But let’s make it four.”

Coco nudged Lou. This time, Lou didn’t hesitate. “Bonjour, Monsieur Deveraux. You already know me from this evening, but my name isn’t Lucida. It’s Louise le Blanc, and these are my friends, Reid and Ansel Diggory, Cosette Monvoisin, Beauregard Lyon, and Helene Labelle.”

Louise le Blanc. Not Louise Diggory. I kept my gaze forward. Impassive.

His brows lifted, and his eyes sparked with recognition. With surprise. They flitted over each of us before landing again on Lou. “Well, well, we meet again, little one! How delightfully unexpected.”

The other actors paused in loading their luggage to watch us. Only two trunks remained on the ground, one too full to properly latch. Glittering fabric spilled out of it. Fuchsia feathers fluttered to the snow.

Lou flashed him a charming smile. “I’m here to accept your offer of help if it still stands.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.” She nodded and extended her arms to the wanted posters tacked around us. To the smoking remains of the pub. “You may not have noticed earlier, but my friends and I have made quite the impression on His Royal Majesty.”

“Killing the Holy Father will do that,” the young woman behind Deveraux said softly. She’d woven flowers through her curly hair and clutched a cross pendant at her throat. I averted my eyes, struggled against the rising emotion. It clawed through my chest, abrupt and untethered.

Lou’s smile sharpened on the woman. “Do you know how many of my sisters your Holy Father killed?”

The woman shrank into herself. “I—I—”

Ansel touched Lou’s arm, shaking his head. I stared at the feathers. Watched as the snow seeped into the delicate pink filaments. Just another moment. I just needed another moment to regain control, to master myself. Then my hand would replace Ansel’s. I would help Lou remember. I would forget this withering, thrashing creature in my chest—

The curly-haired woman drew herself up to her full height. She was taller than Lou. Nearly as tall as Madame Labelle. “He still didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

You were like a son to me, Reid.

My breath caught, and the beast raged. I retreated further. As if sensing my distress, Lou stepped in front of me. “Oh? What did he deserve?”

“Lou,” Ansel murmured. A part of me registered his glance in my direction. “Don’t.”

“Right. Of course, you’re right.” Shaking her head, Lou patted his hand and returned her attention to Deveraux. The curly-haired woman watched us with wide eyes. “We need transport into Cesarine, monsieur. Certain complications have arisen, and the road is no longer safe to travel alone. Do you have room in your wagons for a few more?”

“Why, of course we—”

“Only actors ride in the wagons.” Zenna crossed her arms and skewered Claud with a glare. “That’s the rule, isn’t it? That you can’t afford to feed and house us if we don’t perform?” To Lou, she added, “Claud is a collector of sorts. He adds only the best and brightest talent to his troupe. The rare and unusual. The exceptional.”

Fingerless gingham mittens covered Deveraux’s hands, which he clasped with a smile. “Zenna, my sweet, the exceptional come in all shapes and sizes. Let us discount no one.” He turned to Lou apologetically. “Unfortunately, however nettlesome, a rule is a rule, and a shoe is a shoe. Zenna is correct. I only allow actors to ride with the troupe.” He swayed his head slightly, pursing his lips. “If, however, you and your charming companions take to the stage—in full costume, of course—you would become, in fact, actors—”

“Claud,” Zenna hissed, “they’re fugitives. The huntsmen will have our heads if we shelter them.”

He patted her lavender hair airily. “Ah, poppet, aren’t we all? Liars and cheats and poets and dreamers and schemers, every last one.”

“But not murderers.” A young man stepped forward, tilting his head at me curiously. Tall. Russet-skinned. Long black hair. Beside him stood a man with an uncannily similar face. No—identical. Twins. “Did you do it? Did you kill the Archbishop?”

My jaw locked. Lou answered for me, arching a brow. “Does it matter? He’s gone either way.”

He studied her for several seconds before murmuring, “Good riddance.”

They hated him. Emotion thrashed, demanding admission, but I felt nothing. I felt nothing.

Deveraux, who watched the exchange—who watched me—with an inscrutable expression, smiled brightly once more. “So, what do you say? Are you, in fact, actors?”