I didn’t wait for her to follow. Honestly, I didn’t know what I’d do if she didn’t. The memory of the Archbishop striking her reared in my mind, and the heat coursing through me burned hotter. That would never happen again. Even if she cursed—even if she refused to listen to a single word I ever said—I would never raise my fist to her.

Ever.

Which left me fervently hoping she followed.

After a few seconds, soft footsteps echoed behind me in the corridor. Thank God. I shortened my strides, so she could catch up. “Through here,” I murmured, leading her down the staircase. Careful not to touch her. “To the dungeon.”

She looked up at me in alarm. “The dungeon?”

I almost chuckled. Almost. “The council room is down there.”

I ushered her through another corridor. Down a smaller, steeper flight of stairs. Terse voices drifted toward us as we descended. I pushed open the crude wooden door at the base of the stairs and motioned for her to step inside.

A dozen of my brethren stood arguing around an enormous circular table in the middle of the room. Bits of parchment littered it. Newspaper clippings. Charcoal sketches. Underneath it all stretched an enormous map of Belterra. Every mountain range—every bog, forest, and lake—had been inked with care and precision. Every city and landmark.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the little thief.” Jean Luc’s eyes swept over her with keen interest. He sauntered around the table to examine her closer. “Come to grace us with her presence at last.”

The others soon followed, ignoring me completely. My lips pressed together in unexpected irritation. I didn’t know who bothered me most—my wife for wearing trousers, my brothers for staring, or myself for caring.

“Peace, Jean Luc.” I stepped closer, towering behind her. “She’s here to help.”

“Is she? I thought street rats valued loyalty.”

“We do,” she said flatly.

He raised a brow. “You refuse to help us then?”

Behave, I pleaded silently. Cooperate.

She didn’t, of course. Instead, she drifted toward the table, glancing at the bits of paper. I knew without looking who she saw. One face drawn a dozen times. A dozen ways. Mocking us.

La Dame des Sorcières. The Lady of the Witches.

Even the name rankled. She looked nothing like the hag at the parade. Nothing like the raven-haired mother, either. Her hair wasn’t even black in her natural form, but a peculiar shade of blond. Almost white. Or silver.

Jean Luc followed her gaze. “You know of Morgane le Blanc?”

“Everyone knows of her.” She lifted her chin and shot him a black look. “Even street rats.”

“If you helped us get her to the stake, all would be forgiven,” Jean Luc said.

“Forgiven?” She arched a brow and leaned forward, planting her bandaged fingers right across Morgane le Blanc’s nose. “For what, exactly?”

“For publicly humiliating Reid.” Jean Luc mirrored her gesture, his expression hardening. “For forcing him to disgrace his name, his honor as a Chasseur.”

My brethren nodded their agreement, muttering under their breath.

“That’s enough.” To my horror, my hand came down on her shoulder. I stared at it—large and foreign on her slim frame. Blinked once. Twice. Then snatched it back and tried to ignore the peculiar look on Jean Luc’s face as he watched us. I cleared my throat. “My wife is here to bear witness against the witch at Tremblay’s. Nothing more.”

Jean Luc raised his brows—politely skeptical, perhaps amused—before he extended a hand to her. “By all means, then, Madame Diggory, please enlighten us.”

Madame Diggory.

I swallowed hard and stepped up to the table beside her. I hadn’t yet heard the title aloud. Hearing the words . . . it felt strange. Real.

She scowled and knocked his hand away. “It’s Lou.”

And there she was again. I stared at the ceiling, trying and failing to ignore my brothers’ indignant whispers.

“What do you know of the witches?” Jean Luc asked.

“Not much.” She trailed her finger along the series of Xs and circles marring the map’s topography. Most were concentrated in La Fôret des Yeux. One circle for every tip we’d received about witches dwelling in the caves there. One X for every reconnaissance mission that had turned up nothing.

A grim smile tugged at Jean Luc’s mouth. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate, madame. Indeed, it is only by the Archbishop’s intervention that you are here, intact, rather than scattered across the kingdom as ash. Aiding and abetting a witch is illegal.”

Tense silence descended as she looked from face to face, clearly deciding whether she agreed. I’d just opened my mouth to prod her in the right direction when she sighed. “What do you want to know?”

I blinked, shocked at her sudden prudence, but Jean Luc didn’t pause to savor the moment. Instead, he pounced.

“Where are they located?”

“As if she would’ve told me.”

“Who is she?”

She smirked. “A witch.”

“Her name.”

“Alexandra.”

“Her surname?”

“I don’t know. We operate with secrecy in East End, even amongst friends.”

I recoiled at the word, disgust seeping through me. “You—you truly consider the witch a friend?”

“I do.”

“What happened?” Jean Luc asked.

She glanced around, suddenly mutinous. “You did.”

“Explain.”

“When you busted us at Tremblay’s, we all fled,” she snapped at him. “I don’t know where she went. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.”

Jean Luc and I shared a look. If she was telling the truth, this was a dead end. From the little time I’d spent with her, however, I knew she didn’t tell the truth. Probably wasn’t even capable of it. But perhaps there was another way to procure the information we needed. I knew better than to ask about the man of their trio—the one who’d escaped, the one the constabulary searched for even now—but these enemies of hers . . .

If they knew my wife, they might also know the witch. And anyone who knew the witch was worth interrogating.

“Your enemies,” I said carefully. “Are they her enemies too?”

“Maybe.”

“Who are they?”

She glared down at the map. “They don’t know she’s a witch, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’d still have their names.”

“Fine.” She shrugged—immediately bored—and began ticking names off on her fingers. “There’s Andre and Grue, Madame Labelle—”

“Madame Labelle?” I frowned, remembering the woman’s familiarity with Tremblay the night of the robbery. She’d claimed her presence had been coincidental, but . . . I tensed in realization.

The seal on the Archbishop’s tip—the letter he’d thrown in the fire—had been shaped like a rose. And Ansel’s stammered description of the informant had been clear: She had bright red hair and was very—very beautiful.