Morgane couldn’t have Angelica’s Ring. She couldn’t. I needed it to dispel her enchantment. If I wore it when she drained my blood, the blood would be useless. The magic would be broken. I would die, yes, but the Lyons would live. Those innocent children would live.

I struggled harder, the veins in my throat nearly bursting from the strain. But the more I fought, the more difficult it became to speak—to breathe—around the heaviness of my body. My limbs felt as if they would soon fall through the wagon floor. Panicked, I focused on bringing a pattern forth—any pattern—but the gold winked in and out of focus, blurred and disjointed from the drug.

I cursed bitterly, my resolve quickly crumbling into hopelessness.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own ring?” Morgane smiled tenderly and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “You must tell me, though, however did you find it? Or was it you who stole it in the first place?” When I didn’t answer, she sighed heavily. “How you disappoint me, darling. The running, the hiding, the ring—surely you realize it’s all folly.”

Her smile vanished as she lifted my chin, and her eyes burned into mine with sudden, predatory focus. “For every seed you’ve scattered, Louise, I’ve scattered a thousand more. You are my daughter. I know you better than you know yourself. You cannot outsmart me, you cannot escape me, and you cannot hope to triumph against me.”

She paused as if waiting for a reply, but I didn’t indulge her. With every ounce of my concentration, I focused on moving my hand, on shifting my wrist, on lifting even a finger. Darkness swam in my vision from the effort. She watched me struggle for several minutes—the intensity in her eyes dulling to a strange sort of wistfulness—before she resumed stroking my hair. “We must all die eventually, Louise. I urge you to make peace with it. On Modraniht, your life will fulfill its purpose at last, and your death will liberate our people. You should be proud. Not many receive such a glorious fate.”

With one last, desperate heave, I attempted to lash out at her—to strike her, to hurt her, to tear the ring from her finger somehow—but my body remained cold and lifeless.

Already dead.

My days passed in torment. Though the drug paralyzed my body, it did nothing to dull the ache in my bones. My face and wrist continued to throb from the witch’s attack, and a hard knot had formed at my throat from being stabbed by so many quills.

To think, Andre and Grue had once been the worst of my problems.

Morgane’s pale fingers traced the knot, circling to the finger-shaped bruises beneath my ear. “Friends of yours, darling?”

I scowled and focused on the burning sensation in my hands and feet—the first indicator of the drug waning. If I were quick, I could snatch Angelica’s Ring and roll from the wagon, disappearing before Morgane reacted. “Once.”

“And now?”

I tried to wiggle my fingers. They remained limp. “Dead.”

As if sensing my thoughts, Morgane withdrew the familiar steel syringe from her bag. I closed my eyes, trying and failing to prevent my chin from quivering. “Your sisters will heal your body when we reach the Chateau. These ghastly bruises must be gone before Modraniht. You will be wholesome and pure again.” She massaged the knot on my throat, preparing it for the quill. “Fair as the Maiden.”

My eyes snapped open. “I’m hardly a maiden.”

Her saccharine smile faltered. “You didn’t actually lie with that filthy huntsman?” Sniffing delicately, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Oh, Louise. How disappointing. I can smell him all over you.” Her eyes flicked to my abdomen, and she cocked her head, inhaling deeper. “I do hope you took precautions, darling. The Mother is alluring, but her path is not yours.”

My fingers twitched in agitation. “Don’t pretend you’re above slaughtering a grandchild.”

She sank the quill deep into my throat in response. I bit my cheek to keep from screaming as my fingers grew heavy once more.

“Thy blood is the price.” She caressed my throat longingly. “Your womb is empty, Louise. You are the last of my line. It’s almost a shame . . .” She bent down, brushing her lips against my scar. Déjà vu swooped sickeningly through my stomach as I remembered Reid kissing the same spot only days ago. “I think I would’ve enjoyed killing the huntsman’s baby.”

“Wake up, darling.”

I blinked awake to Morgane’s whisper in my ear. Though I had no way of knowing how much time had passed—whether minutes, hours, or days—the wagon’s cover had finally been discarded, and night had fallen. I didn’t bother trying to sit up.

Morgane pointed to something in the distance anyway. “We’re almost home.”

I could see only the stars above me, but the familiar, crashing sound of waves on rock told me enough. The very air here told me enough. It was different than the fishy air I’d suffered in Cesarine: crisp and sharp, infused with pine needles and salt and earth . . . and just a hint of magic. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes. Despite everything, my stomach still flipped at being this close. At finally returning home.

Within minutes, the wheels of the wagon clicked against the wooden slats of a bridge.

The bridge.

The legendary entrance to Chateau le Blanc.

I listened harder. Soft, nearly indiscernible laughter soon echoed around us, and the wind picked up, swirling snow into the cold night air. It would’ve been eerie had I not known it was all an elaborate production. Morgane had a flair for the dramatic.

She needn’t have bothered. Only a witch could find the Chateau. An ancient and powerful magic surrounded the castle—a magic to which each Dame des Sorcières had contributed for thousands of years. I would’ve been expected to strengthen the enchantment myself someday if things had been different.

I glanced up at Morgane, who smiled and waved to the white-clad women now running barefoot alongside the wagon. They left no footprints in the snow. Silent specters.

“Sisters,” she greeted warmly.

I scowled. These were the infamous guardians of the bridge. Actors in Morgane’s production—though they did enjoy luring the occasional man to the bridge at night.

And drowning him in the murky waters below.

“Darling, look.” Morgane propped me up in her arms. “It’s Manon. You remember her, don’t you? You were inseparable as witchlings.”

My cheeks burned as my head lolled onto my shoulder. Worse, Manon was indeed there to witness my humiliation, her dark eyes bright with excitement as she ran. As she smiled joyously and showered the wagon with winter jasmine.

Jasmine. A symbol of love.

Tears burned behind my eyes. I wanted to cry—to cry and rage and burn the Chateau and all its inhabitants to the ground. They’d claimed to love me, once. But then . . . so had Reid.

Love.

I cursed the word.

Manon reached for the wagon and pulled herself up. A garland of holly rested atop her head; the red berries looked like drops of blood against her black hair and skin. “Louise! You’ve finally returned!” She threw her arms around my neck, and my limp body fell against hers. “I feared I’d never see you again.”

“Manon has volunteered to accompany you at the Chateau,” Morgane said. “Isn’t that lovely? You’ll have such fun together.”