“To save your life.” She arched a brow. “The more people who knew, the more likely it was to reach Auguste—and it did. You’re wanted alive, not dead. Once he discovered the connection, I knew he’d want to see you again, to . . . study you. Your father is nothing if not vain, and children make impeccable mirrors.”

“You’re insane.”

“That is not a polite word.” She sniffed and smoothed her skirts, folded her hands in her lap. “Especially in light of Louise’s new situation. Do you call her insane?”

“No.” I forced my clenched teeth apart. “And you don’t either.”

She waved her hand. “Enough. You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t desire a friendship with me—which is fortunate, indeed, as you’re in desperate need of not a friend, but a parent. It is to that end I now speak: we will not defeat Morgane without magic. I understand you’ve had two less than ideal experiences with it, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. You must put aside your fear, or you will kill us all. Do you understand?”

At her tone—imperious, sanctimonious—anger tore through me, sharp and jagged as shattered glass. How dare she speak to me like a petulant child? How dare she presume to parent me?

“Magic is death and madness.” I wrung out my shirt, stalking to join her at the table, tripping over my bag in the process. Swearing viciously at the tight quarters. “I want no part of it.”

“There is more in this earth than in all your Heaven and Hell, yet you remain blind. I have said it before, and I will say it again. Open your eyes, Reid. Magic is not your enemy. Indeed, if we are to persuade Toulouse and Thierry into an alliance, I dare say you’ll need to be rather less critical.”

I paused with a fresh cup of water to my lips. “What?”

She regarded me shrewdly over her own cup. “The entire purpose of this endeavor is to procure allies, and two powerful ones have just landed in our lap. Morgane will not expect them. What Morgane does not expect, Morgane cannot manipulate.”

“We don’t know they’re witches,” I muttered.

“Use that thick head of yours, son, before it falls from your shoulders.”

“Don’t call me son—”

“I’ve heard of Claud Deveraux in my travels. What lovely Zenna professed is true—he surrounds himself with the exceptional, the talented, the powerful. I met a woman in Amandine years ago who’d performed with Troupe de Fortune. Rumor had it she could—”

“Is there a point to this?”

“The point is that Toulouse and Thierry St. Martin—probably even Zenna and Seraphine—are not what they appear. No one batted an eye when Lou revealed herself as a witch. They were far more concerned with you as a Chasseur, which means someone in this troupe practices magic. Claud wants you to befriend Toulouse and Thierry, yes?”

You might have more in common with them than you think.

I forced a nod.

“Excellent. Do it.”

Shaking my head, I downed the rest of the water. As if it were that simple. As if I could disguise my disdain for magic and—and charm them into a false friendship. Lou could’ve done it. The thought curdled in my gut. But I could neither forget that look in her eye at the pub, nor the way she’d removed my Balisarda to control me. I couldn’t forget the feel of the Archbishop’s blood on my hand. My ex-brethrens’ blood. My chest tightened.

Magic.

“I don’t care if the St. Martins are witches.” My lip curled, and I pushed away from the table. We’d stop for dinner soon. I’d suffer even Deveraux’s singing to escape this conversation. “I have no intention of bonding with any of you.”

“Oh?” Her eyes flashed. She too sprang to her feet. “You seemed intent on bonding with Beauregard. You seemed to care a great deal about Violette and Victoire. How do I earn such coveted treatment?”

I cursed my own carelessness. She’d been listening. Of course she’d been listening—filthy eavesdropper—and I’d shown her my soft underbelly. “You don’t. You abandoned me.”

In her eyes, our last moment on Modraniht unfolded. Those thousand moments. I shoved them all aside. “I thought we’d moved past this,” she said softly.

I stared at her in disgust. Yes, I’d given her peace with her last breath, but that gift—it’d been for me too. She’d been dying. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life haunting a ghost, so I’d let her go. I’d let it all go. The pain. The bitterness. The regret. Except she hadn’t died, she hadn’t left, and now she haunted me instead.

And some hurt couldn’t stay buried.

“How does one move past being left to die in a garbage bin?”

“How many times must I tell you? I didn’t—” She shook her head, color heightened and eyes overbright. Tearful. Whether angry or sad, I didn’t know. Her voice was small, however, as she continued. “I am sorry, Reid. You’ve led a tumultuous life, and the blame in part is mine. I know this. I understand my role in your suffering.” Catching my hand, she rose to her feet. I told myself to pull away. I didn’t. “Now you must understand that, if given the choice, I never would’ve left you. I would’ve forsaken everything—my home, my sisters, my life—to keep you, but I cannot change the past. I cannot protect you from its pain. I can protect you here and now, however, if you let me.”

If you let me.

The words were living things in my ears. Though I tried to bury them, they took root, suffocating my anger. Swathing my sorrow. Enveloping it. Enveloping me. I felt—warm, unsteady. Like lashing out and railing against her. Like falling down and clutching her skirt. How many times had I wished for a parent to protect me? To love me? Though I’d never admitted it—never would admit it—the Archbishop, he hadn’t been—

No. It was too much.

I pulled away from her, sinking onto my cot. Staring at nothing. A moment of silence passed. It might’ve been uncomfortable. It might’ve been tense. I didn’t notice. “I love pears,” I finally mumbled, near incoherent. She still heard. The next second, she’d pressed a hot cup of perry into my hands.

Then she went for the kill.

“If you wish to defeat Morgane, Reid—if you wish to protect Louise—you must do what is necessary. I am not asking you to practice magic. I am asking you to tolerate it. Toulouse and Thierry will never join us if you scorn their very existence. Just—get to know them.” After a second of hesitation, she added, “For Louise.”

For yourself, she’d wanted to say.

I stared into the perry, feeling sick, before lifting it to my lips. The steaming liquid burned all the way down.

HarperCollins Publishers

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The White Pattern

Lou

After two hours of trudging through the shadows of Fôret des Yeux—pretending not to jump at small noises—a sudden realization clubbed me in the head.

Gabrielle Gilly was Reid’s half sister.

I studied the little girl’s back through the pines. With her auburn hair and brown eyes, she clearly favored her mother, but when she glanced at me over her shoulder—for the hundredth time, no less—there was something in her smile, the slight dimple in her cheek, that reminded me of Reid.