“No.” My jaw locked. I couldn’t stop shaking my head. “Not like this.”

“Either I kill my mother, or my mother kills me. It’s the only way.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t the only way. She didn’t know that, of course. I’d refused to speak the alternative aloud, refused to acknowledge it even in my own thoughts. The golden cord quivered in anticipation.

Lou had already given so much. She’d journeyed to Hell and back to save us, shattering herself in the process. She couldn’t die now. And if she didn’t die—she spoke of killing her mother lightly, as if matricide wasn’t an unspeakably heinous act. As if it wasn’t unnatural. As if it wouldn’t break her all over again.

“No.”

My purpose resolved as I clutched her face. As I brushed the water droplets from her lashes.

So beautiful.

“You test my patience, children.” Morgane flicked her hand, and Beau, Célie, and Coco all crumpled in identical movements—like toys crushed underfoot. Beau and Célie lost consciousness completely, and Coco bit her lip around a scream. Morgane’s emerald eyes filled with spite. “Perhaps you’re right, little blood witch. Perhaps I’ll kill all of you instead.”

“Do not be foolish,” La Voisin snapped. “Accept the terms. The prince and girl mean nothing. They will die soon enough.”

Morgane whirled to face her. “You dare command me—?”

Faintly, I heard their voices escalate, but my entire world had narrowed to Lou’s face. To the golden pattern. It vied for my attention, nearly blinding now, pointing straight and true at its target. Connecting us. Demanding to be seen. Hope and despair warred deep in my chest. Neither existed without the other.

I would find my way back to her. I’d done it once. I could do it again.

And she’d finally be safe.

“I’ll find you again, Lou,” I whispered, and her brows puckered in confusion. I kissed them smooth. “I promise.”

Before she could answer, I clenched my fist in her hair.

The pattern burst in a shower of gold.

I saw no more.

Part III

C’est l’exception qui confirme la règle.

It’s the exception that proves the rule.

—French proverb

Doubt Creeps in

Nicholina

The pain fades without a body, as does all sense of touch, of smell, of taste. There is no blood as we spiral from sea to sky. There is no magic. No death. Here we are . . . free. We are a gust of wind. We are the winter cold. We are a flurry of snow on the mountainside—swirling, twirling, whirling—nipping the noses of witches below. Our mistress walks among them. She calls them by name.

She does not call ours.