I strode past him into the sanctuary. “A closer eye, my ass.”

Lit by hundreds of candles, the sanctuary of Saint-Cécile looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Over half the city had gathered in the vast room to hear the Archbishop’s sermon. Those wealthy enough to procure seats had dressed in jewel-toned finery: gowns and suits of rich burgundy, amethyst, and emerald with golden trim and lace sleeves, fur muffs and silk cravats. Pearls shone luminescent from their ears, and diamonds sparkled ostentatiously from their throats and wrists.

At the back of the sanctuary, the poorer sect of the congregation stood, faces solemn and dirty. Hands clasped. A number of blue-coated Chasseurs stood as well, including Jean Luc. He waved us over.

I cursed silently when my husband complied. “We stand for the entire service?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Have you never attended Mass?”

“Of course I have,” I lied, digging in my heels as he continued to steer me forward. I wished I’d worn a hood. There were more people here than I’d ever imagined. Presumably, none of them were witches, but one never knew . . . I was here, after all. “Once or twice.”

At his incredulous expression, I gestured down the length of my body. “Criminal, remember? Forgive me for not memorizing every proverb and learning every rule.”

Rolling his eyes, he pushed me the final few steps. “Chasseurs stand as an act of humility.”

“But I’m not a Chasseur—”

“And praise God for that.” Jean Luc stepped aside to make room for us, and my domineering husband forced me between them. They clasped forearms with tense smiles. “I didn’t know if you’d be joining us, given the fiasco this afternoon. How did His Eminence handle the news?”

“He didn’t blame us.”

“Who did he blame, then?”

My husband’s eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds before returning to Jean Luc’s. “The initiates on duty. They’ve been relieved of their positions.”

“Rightfully so.”

I knew better than to correct him. Fortunately, their conversation ended when the congregation stood and began to chant. My husband and Jean Luc joined in seamlessly as the Archbishop and his attendants entered the sanctuary, proceeded up the aisle, and bowed to the altar. Bewildered—and unable to comprehend a word of their dreary ballad—I made up my own lyrics.

They may or may not have involved a barmaid named Liddy.

My husband scowled and elbowed me as silence descended once more. Though I couldn’t be sure, Jean Luc’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh.

The Archbishop turned to greet the congregation. “May the Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” they murmured in unison.

I watched in morbid fascination as the Archbishop lifted his arms wide. “Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.”

A priest beside him lifted his voice. “Lord, have mercy!”

“You were sent to heal the contrite of heart,” the Archbishop continued. “Lord, have mercy!”

The congregation joined in. “Lord, have mercy!”

“You came to gather the nations into the peace of God’s kingdom. Lord, have mercy!”

The peace of God’s kingdom? I scoffed, crossing my arms. My husband elbowed me again, mouthing, Stop it. His blue eyes bored into mine. I’m serious. Jean Luc definitely grinned now.

“Lord, have mercy!”

“You come in word and sacrament to strengthen us in holiness. Lord, have mercy!”

“Lord, have mercy!”

“You will come in glory with salvation for your people. Lord, have mercy!”

“Lord, have mercy!”

Unable to help myself, I muttered, “Hypocrite.”

My husband looked likely to expire. His face had flushed red again, and a vein throbbed in his throat. The Chasseurs around us either glared or chuckled. Jean Luc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but I didn’t find the situation quite as funny as before. Where was my kin’s salvation? Where was our mercy?

“May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”

“Amen.”

The congregation immediately began another chant, but I stopped listening. Instead, I watched as the Archbishop lifted his arms to the heavens, closing his eyes and losing himself in the song. As Jean Luc grinned, nudging my husband when they both sang the wrong words. As my husband grudgingly laughed and pushed him away.

“You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us,” the boy in front of us sang. He clutched his father’s hand, swaying to the cadence of their voices. “You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. You take away the sins of the world, receive our prayer.”

Have mercy on us.

Receive our prayer.

At the end of my Proverbs torture session, there’d been a verse I hadn’t understood.

As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.

“What does it mean?”

“It means . . . water is like a mirror,” my husband had explained, frowning slightly. “It reflects our faces back to us. And our lives—the way we live, the things we do—” He’d looked at his hands, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “They reflect our hearts.”

It’d made perfect sense, explained like that. And yet . . . I looked around at the worshippers once more—the men and women who pleaded for mercy and cried for my blood on the same breath. How could both be in their hearts?

“Lou, I’m—” He’d cleared his throat and forced himself to look at me. Those blue eyes had shone with sincerity. With regret. “I shouldn’t have shouted earlier. In the library. I’m . . . sorry.”

Our lives reflect our hearts.

Yes, it’d made perfect sense, explained like that, but I still didn’t understand. I didn’t understand my husband. I didn’t understand the Archbishop. Or the dancing boy. Or his father. Or Jean Luc or the Chasseurs or the witches or her. I didn’t understand any of them.

Conscious of the Chasseurs’ eyes on me, I forced a smirk and bumped my husband’s hip, pretending that it’d all been a show. A laugh. That I’d just been goading him to get a reaction. That I wasn’t a witch in Mass, standing amongst my enemies and worshiping someone else’s god.

Our lives reflect our hearts.

They might’ve all been hypocrites, but I was the biggest one of all.

Madame Labelle

Reid

The next evening was the first snowfall of the year.

I sat up from the floor, brushing back my sweaty hair, and watched the flakes drift past the window. Only exercise worked the knots from my back. After stumbling upon me on the floor last night, Lou had claimed the bed. She hadn’t invited me to join her.

I didn’t complain. Though my back ached, the exercise kept my irritation in check. I’d quickly learned counting didn’t work with Lou . . . namely, after she’d started counting right along with me.

She slammed the book she was reading down on the desk. “This is absolute drivel.”

“What is it?”