I laughed. It came out a strangled, desperate sound. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

The Archbishop didn’t share my laughter. “You will if you wish to avoid a public lashing and imprisonment. Though I’m not chief of the constabulary, he is a dear friend.”

I gaped at him. “You can’t blackmail me—”

He waved a hand as if swatting an irksome fly. “It is the sentence that awaits a thief. I would advise you to think very carefully about this, child.”

I appealed to the Chasseur, determined to keep a level head despite the panic clawing up my throat. “You can’t want this. Please, tell him to find another way.”

“There is no other way,” the Archbishop interjected.

The Chasseur stood very still indeed. He seemed to have stopped breathing.

“You are like a son to me, Reid.” The Archbishop reached up to clasp the Chasseur’s shoulder—a mouse comforting an elephant. Some disconnected part of my mind wanted to laugh. “Do not throw away your life—your promising career, your oath to God—for the sake of this heathen. Once she is your wife, you can lock her in the closet and never think of her again. You would have the legal right to do whatever you please with her.” He shot him a meaningful look. “This arrangement would also solve . . . other matters.”

Blood finally returned to the Chasseur’s face—no, flooded his face. It raced up his throat and into his cheeks, burning hotter than even his eyes. His jaw clenched. “Sir, I—”

But I didn’t hear him. Saliva coated my mouth, and my vision narrowed. Marriage. To a Chasseur. There had to be another way, any other way—

Bile rose in my throat, and before I could stop it, I heaved a spectacular arc of vomit onto the Archbishop’s feet. He leapt away from me with a disgusted cry.

“How dare you—!” He raised a fist to strike me once more, but the Chasseur moved with lightning swiftness. His hand caught the Archbishop’s wrist.

“If this woman is to be my wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “you will not touch her again.”

The Archbishop bared his teeth. “You agree, then?”

The Chasseur released his wrist and looked at me, a deeper blush creeping up his throat. “Only if she does.”

His words reminded me of Coco.

Take care of yourself.

Only if you do.

Coco had said I needed to find protection. I stared up at the copper-haired Chasseur, at the Archbishop still rubbing his wrist. Perhaps protection had found me.

Andre, Grue, the constabulary, her . . . none of them could harm me if I had a Chasseur as a husband. Even the Chasseurs themselves would cease to be a threat—if I could keep up the act. If I could avoid doing magic near them. They’d never know I was a witch. I’d be hidden in plain sight.

But . . . I’d also have a husband.

I didn’t want a husband. Didn’t want to be shackled to anyone in marriage, especially someone as stiff and self-righteous as this Chasseur. But if marriage was my only alternative to spending life in prison, perhaps it was the most agreeable option. It certainly was the only option that would get me out of this theater unchained.

After all, I still had Angelica’s Ring. I could always escape after the marriage certificate was signed.

Right. I straightened my shoulders and raised my chin. “I’ll do it.”

The Ceremony

Reid

Shouts escalated outside the theater, but I barely heard them. Blood roared in my ears. It drowned out every other sound: their cries for justice, the Archbishop’s sympathy.

But not her footsteps. I heard every one of those.

Light. Lighter than mine. But more erratic. Less measured.

I focused on them, and the roaring in my ears gradually quieted. I could hear the theater manager and constabulary now, trying to calm the crowd.

I resisted the urge to unsheathe my Balisarda as the Archbishop opened the doors. My legs locked up, and my skin felt somehow hot and cold at the same time—and too small. Much too small. It itched and pricked as every eye on the street turned toward us. A small, warm hand rested on my arm.

Calloused palms. Slender fingers—two bandaged. I glanced down. Broken.

I didn’t allow my eyes to follow her fingers up her arm. Because her arm would lead to her shoulder, and her shoulder would lead to her face. And I knew what I’d find there. Two bruised eyes, and a fresh welt forming on her cheek. A scar above her eyebrow. Another across her throat. It still peeked below the black ribbon, despite her attempt to hide it.

Célie’s face rose in my mind. Unblemished and pure.

Oh, God. Célie.

The Archbishop stepped forward, and the crowd immediately quieted. With a frown, he pulled me in front of him. The woman—the heathen—didn’t relinquish her grip. I still didn’t look at her.

“Brothers!” The Archbishop’s voice rang out across the now silent street, attracting even more attention. Every head turned in our direction, and she cringed into me. I glanced down at her then, frowning. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Frightened.

I turned away.

You cannot give me your heart, Reid. I cannot have it on my conscience.

Célie, please—

Those monsters who murdered Pip are still out there. They must be punished. I will not distract you from your purpose. If you must give away your heart, give it to your brotherhood. Please, please, forget me.

I could never forget you.

Despair nearly knocked me to my knees. She would never forgive me.

“Your concern for this woman has been seen and is appreciated by God.” The Archbishop spread his arms wide. Beseeching. “But do not be deceived. After attempting to rob an aristocrat such as yourselves last night, she had the ill grace to flee her husband as he attempted to discipline her this morning. Do not pity her, friends. Pray for her.”

A woman at the front of the crowd glared at the Archbishop with unabashed loathing. Slim. Pale hair. Upturned nose. I tensed, recognizing the woman from backstage.

You disgusting pig!

As if she sensed my gaze, her eyes flicked to me and narrowed. I stared back at her, trying and failing to forget her whispered condemnation. Hopefully they throw him in prison. Who knows what could have happened?

I swallowed hard and looked away. Of course that was what it’d looked like. The little heathen knew her tricks, and I’d made it laughably easy. Fallen right into her trap. I cursed myself, longing to jerk my arm from her grasp. But that wouldn’t do. Too many people watched us, and the Archbishop had been clear in his orders.

“We must confess our duplicity as soon as we return home,” he’d said, frowning as he paced. “The people must believe you are already married.” He’d turned toward her abruptly then. “Am I correct in assuming your soul is unsaved?” When she hadn’t responded, he’d scowled. “As I thought. We shall remedy both situations immediately and journey straight to the Doleur for baptism. You must act as her husband until we formalize the union, Reid. Take that ring from her right hand and move it to her left. Walk beside her. The charade may end the second the crowd disperses. And—for goodness’ sake, recover her cloak.”

The heathen twisted the ring in question now. Shifted her feet. Reached up to touch a piece of hair by her face. She’d pinned the rest into a snarled knot at her nape, wild and untamed. Just like her. I loathed it.