Madame Labelle had been clear. My mother was in the city. Perhaps she knew where I was, or perhaps she didn’t. Either way, I couldn’t afford weakness.

As if listening to my thoughts, the golden dust seemed to shift closer, and the witches at the parade reared in my mind’s eye. Their crazed smiles. The bodies floating helplessly above them. I repressed a shudder, and a wave of hopelessness crashed through me.

No matter how often I practiced—no matter how skilled I grew—I would never be as powerful as some. Because witches like those at the parade—witches willing to sacrifice everything for their cause—weren’t merely powerful.

They were dangerous.

Though a witch couldn’t see another’s patterns, feats such as drowning or burning a person alive required enormous offerings to maintain balance: perhaps a specific emotion, perhaps a year’s worth of memories. The color of their eyes. The ability to feel another’s touch.

Such losses could . . . change a person. Twist her into something darker and stranger than she was before. I’d seen it happen once.

But that was a long time ago.

Even if I couldn’t hope to grow more powerful than my mother, I refused to do nothing.

“If I hinder the healers’ and priests’ ability to hear us, I’m impairing them. I’m taking from them.” I brushed aside the gold clinging to my skin, straightening my shoulders. “I have to impair myself as well, somehow. One of my senses . . . hearing is the obvious trade, but I’ve already done that. I could give another sense, like touch or sight or taste.”

I paused and examined the patterns. “Taste isn’t enough—the balance is still tipped in my favor. Sight is too much, as I’d be rendered ineffectual. So . . . it has to be touch. Or maybe smell?” I focused on my nose, but no new pattern emerged.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

I glared over at Bernie, my concentration slipping. The patterns vanished. “I love you, Bernie, but could you please shut up? You’re making this difficult.”

Clink.

Coco poked me in the cheek, directing my attention back to the door. “Keep going. Try a different perspective.”

I swatted her hand away. “That’s easy for you to say.” Gritting my teeth, I stared at the door so hard I feared my eyes might explode. Perhaps that would be balance enough. “Maybe . . . maybe I’m not taking from them. Maybe they’re giving me something.”

“Like secrecy?” Coco prompted.

“Yes. Which means—which means—”

“Maybe you could try telling a secret.”

“Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t work like—”

A thin, golden cord snaked between my tongue and her ear. Shit.

That was the trouble with magic. It was subjective. For every possibility I considered, another witch would consider a hundred different ones. Just as no two minds worked the same, no two witches’ magic worked the same. We all saw the world differently.

Still, I needn’t tell Coco that.

She flashed a smug smile and raised a brow, as if reading my thoughts. “It sounds to me like there are no hard and fast rules to this magic of yours. It’s intuitive.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “To be honest, it reminds me of blood magic.”

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and we stilled. When they didn’t pass—when they halted in front of the door—Coco retreated to the corner, and I slipped into the iron chair by Bernie’s bed. I flipped the Bible open and began reading a verse at random.

Father Orville hobbled through the door.

“Oh!” He clutched his chest when he saw us, his eyes forming perfect circles behind his spectacles. “Dear me! You gave me a fright.”

Smiling, I rose to my feet as Ansel hastened into the room. Bits of cookie sprinkled his lips. Obviously he’d invaded the healers’ kitchen. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” I returned my attention to Father Orville. “My apologies, Father. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Not at all, child, not at all. I’m just a bit overwrought this morning. We had a strange night. Our patients are unusually . . . agitated.” He waved a hand, revealing a metal syringe, and joined me at Bernie’s bedside. My smile froze in place. “I see you too are concerned for our Monsieur Bernard. Last night one of my healers found him attempting to jump out a window!”

“What?” I locked eyes with Bernie, frowning, but his mutilated face gave nothing away. Not even a flicker. He remained . . . blank. I shook my head. His pain must’ve been terrible.

Father Orville patted my shoulder. “Not to worry, child. It won’t happen again.” He lifted a feeble hand to show me the syringe. “We’ve perfected the dosage this time. I’m sure of it. This injection will soothe his agitation until he joins the Lord.”

He pulled a thin dagger from his robes and cut a small incision on Bernie’s arm. Coco stepped forward, eyes narrowed, as black blood oozed out. “He’s gotten worse.”

Father Orville fumbled with the syringe. I doubted he could even see Bernie’s arm, but he finally managed to plunge the quill deep into the black cut. I cringed when he pushed the trigger, injecting the poison, but Bernie didn’t move. He just kept staring at me.

“There now.” Father Orville eased the quill out of his arm. “He should drift off to sleep momentarily. Might I suggest we leave him in peace?”

“Yes, Father,” Coco said, bowing her head. She shot me a meaningful look. “C’mon, Lou. Let’s go read some Proverbs.”

La Vie Éphémère

Lou

A crowd lined the street outside Soleil et Lune. Aristocrats chatted outside the box office while their wives greeted each other with saccharine smiles. Fashionable carriages came and went. Ushers tried to shepherd the attendees to their seats, but this was the real entertainment of the evening. This was why the rich and affluent came to the theater . . . to preen and politicize in a complex social dance.

I’d always likened it to a peacock’s mating ritual.

My husband and I certainly looked the part. Gone were my bloodstained dress and trousers. When he’d returned to our room earlier with a new evening gown—nearly bursting with pride and anticipation—I hadn’t been able to refuse him. Burnished gold, it had a fitted bodice and tapered sleeves that had been embroidered with tiny, metallic blooms. They glimmered in the dying sunlight, transitioning smoothly into a train of champagne silk. I’d even magicked away a few of my bruises in the infirmary. Powder had covered the rest.

My husband wore his best coat. Though still Chasseur blue, gold filigree decorated the collar and cuffs. I resisted the urge to smile, envisioning the picture we made striding up the theater steps. He’d matched our outfits. I should’ve been appalled, but with his hand wrapped firmly around mine, I couldn’t bring myself to feel anything but excitement.

I had insisted on wearing the hood of my cloak up, however. And a pretty lace ribbon to hide my scar. If my husband had noticed, he’d known better than to comment on either.

Perhaps he wasn’t so bad.

The crowd drew away as we entered the foyer. I doubted anyone remembered us, but people tended to be uneasy—though others would call it reverent—around Chasseurs. No one wrecked a good party like a Chasseur. Especially if that Chasseur was as priggish as my husband.