“I know the law.”

“Fine.” He waved a hand. “Will thou, Louise Margaux Larue, have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”

I could see the snort rising to her face, but she resisted, kicking a clump of sand at the birds instead. They scattered with cries of alarm. A lump rose in my throat as the dove took flight.

“I will.”

The Archbishop continued without pausing. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” He paused, and every muscle in my body tensed, waiting for the next line. As if reading my thoughts, he cast me a scathing look. My cheeks flamed once more.

“For as the Lord God says”—he clasped his hands and bowed his head—“‘two are better than one . . . For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up. And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him. A threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”

He straightened with a grim smile. “It is done. What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. We shall sign the certificate of marriage upon our return, and the matter shall be settled.”

He moved toward the waiting carriage but stopped short, turning to scowl at me. “Of course, the marriage must be consummated to be legally binding.”

She stiffened beside me, staring resolutely at the Archbishop—her mouth tight, her eyes tense. Heat washed over me. Hotter and fiercer than before. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

He nodded, satisfied, and stepped into the carriage. Jean Luc climbed in after him, winking. If possible, my humiliation fanned and spread.

“Good.” The Archbishop snapped the carriage door shut. “See that it’s executed quickly. A witness shall visit your room later to confirm.”

My stomach plummeted as he disappeared down the street.

Part II

Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.

Little by little, the bird makes its nest.

—French proverb

Consummation

Lou

Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine rose up before me, a sinister specter of spires and towers and flying buttresses. Jewel-toned windows leered in the sunlight. Rosewood doors—carved and embedded in white stone—gaped open as we climbed the steps, and a handful of Chasseurs spilled out.

“Behave yourself,” my new husband muttered. I smirked but said nothing.

A Chasseur stopped in front of me. “Identification.”

“Er—”

My husband dipped his head stiffly. “This is my wife, Louise.”

I stared at him, amazed the words had managed to escape through his clenched teeth. As usual, he ignored me.

The Chasseur in front of me blinked. Blinked again. “Your—your wife, Captain Diggory?”

He offered a barely perceptible nod, and I truly feared for his poor teeth. They’d surely chip if he kept gnashing them together. “Yes.”

The Chasseur risked a glance at me. “This is . . . highly unusual. Is the Archbishop aware—”

“He’s expecting us.”

“Of course.” The Chasseur turned to the pageboy who’d just appeared. “Inform the Archbishop that Captain Diggory and his . . . wife have arrived.” He cast another furtive glance in my direction as the boy scurried away. I winked back at him. My husband made an impatient noise and seized my arm, steering me forcefully toward the door.

I tugged my arm away. “There’s no need to cripple me.”

“I told you to behave.”

“Oh, please. I winked. It’s not like I stripped and sang ‘Big Titty Liddy’—”

A commotion rose behind us, and we turned as one. More Chasseurs marched up the street, carrying what looked like a body between them. Though they’d wrapped it in cloth for propriety’s sake, there was no mistaking the hand that dangled below the sheet.

Or the vines that had grown between its fingers. Or the bark that dappled its skin.

I leaned closer—despite my husband yanking me back—and inhaled the familiar sweetness emanating from the body. Interesting.

One of the Chasseurs hastened to conceal the hand. “We found him just outside the city, Captain.”

My husband jerked his head toward the alley beside the church without a word, and the Chasseurs hurried away.

Though my husband led me inside, I craned my neck to watch them go. “What was that about?”

“Never you mind.”

“Where are they taking him?”

“I said never you—”

“Enough.” The Archbishop strode into the foyer, eyeing the mud and water pooling at my feet in distaste. He’d already changed into fresh choral robes, of course, and washed the flecks of mud and sand from his face. I resisted the urge to fidget with my torn dress or finger-comb my matted hair. It didn’t matter what I looked like. The Archbishop could piss off. “The marriage certificate is waiting in my study. From where should we retrieve your possessions?”

Feigning disinterest, I wrung out my soaking hair. “I have none.”

“You . . . have none,” he repeated slowly, looking me over with disapproval.

“That’s what I said, yes—unless you and your cronies would like to ransack Soleil et Lune’s attic. I’ve been borrowing costumes for years now.”

He scowled. “I expected little else. We shall, however, endeavor to find you more presentable garments. I won’t dishonor Reid by having his bride appear a heathen, even if she is one.”

“How dare you?” I clutched the front of my ruined dress in mock affront. “I am a God-fearing Christian woman now—”

My husband hauled me away before I could utter another word.

I swore I heard one of his teeth crack.

After hastily signing the marriage certificate in the study, my husband steered me down a narrow, dusty corridor, clearly trying to avoid the crowded foyer. God forbid anyone saw his new wife. Rumors were probably already circulating the Tower about the scandal.

A spiral staircase tucked in the back of the corridor caught my attention. Unlike the archaic rosewood staircases nestled throughout the cathedral, this one was metal and clearly built after the original construction. And there was something there . . . in the air of the stairwell . . . I tugged on his arm and inhaled covertly. “Where does that staircase lead?”

He turned, following my gaze, before shaking his head curtly. “Nowhere you’ll be visiting. Access beyond the dormitories is restricted. Only approved personnel are allowed on the upper floors.”

Well, then. Count me in.

I said nothing more, however, allowing him to lead me up several different flights of stairs to a plain wooden door. He pushed it open without looking back at me. I paused outside, staring at the words inscribed above the doorway:

THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE.

I shivered. So this was the infamous Chasseur Tower. Though no visible changes marked the corridor beyond, there was something . . . austere about the place. It lacked warmth, benevolence—the atmosphere as bleak and rigid as the men who resided within.