“No.” I stared down at them. This didn’t make sense. I’d—I’d touched the wood in Chasseur Tower. I’d stabbed Nicholina, for Christ’s sake. “No.” At my vehement refusal, Claud’s eyes seemed to flicker in my direction before finding Morgane once more.

“We can’t change the past, little mouse, even in our memories. Not truly.” Nicholina pursed her lips in saccharine pity. Her silver eyes glittered. “We can’t save him, no. He is dead. He is dead, he is dead, with that knife in his head.” She inclined her chin to the knife, which remained firmly upon the ground. Nicholina sauntered forward as Morgane inched backward. “Such a pity.” When she reached out to stroke his cheek, I knocked her hand away, widening my stance between them. She grinned. “Such a pretty pity. He was your family, wasn’t he, Louise? The only one who never betrayed you.”

I scowled without looking at her. My attention remained on Morgane, who blithered about rules and games, still creeping backward. “Coco hasn’t—” But Nicholina held knowledge that I did not, secrets of Coco and—and her mother. Nicholina laughed at my wide-eyed expression, at my slack jaw, as those secrets became my own. “No.” I shook my head, a cold wave of shock washing over me. “Coco would have—”

Morgane lunged, and I could only stand there, immaterial between them, as she plunged her knife through me. My form rippled at the contact. Bone crunched. When Ansel crumpled to his knees, I went with him, trying and failing to catch his broken body, wrapping invisible arms around him to cushion his fall. Still stunned. Still numb. His blood soaked my dress, and my mind simply . . . fled. “Perhaps you didn’t deserve your mother’s ire,” Nicholina mused, circling us idly as Morgane darted into the tunnel, as my own screams shattered the night, “or your huntsman’s hate. But this”—she bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet—“this you earned, Louise.”

Cutting my own strings mercilessly, she repeated the words I’d told him.

“You wreck everything you touch, Ansel. It’s tragic how helpless you are.” Snip. Snip. “You say you’re not a child, Ansel, but you are.” Snip. “You’re a little boy playing pretend, dressing up with our coats and boots. We’ve let you tag along for laughs, but now the time for games is done. A woman’s life is in danger—my life is in danger. We can’t afford for you to mess this up.”

Snip, snip, snip.

As if my life had been worth more than his.

As if his life hadn’t been worth all of ours together.