The current dropped suddenly, and we plummeted with it, straight through the icy water to the seafloor path. When we landed, stunned and shivering, Coco sprinted out to meet us, pulling at my arms, my hands, pushing Reid’s soaking hair out of his face, checking his pulse. She ignored Josephine and the blood witches completely. They still didn’t dare enter L’Eau Mélancolique, even on the path. “Are you hurt?” Coco demanded, checking every inch of me in harried, clumsy movements. “Are you—?”

I caught her hands and grinned. “You look like shit, amie. Those eye bags are as big as Beau’s head.”

Coco dropped her forehead to our joined hands, exhaling in relief. “You’re you.”

“I’m me.”

“Thank god.”

“Thank Ansel.”

She chuckled on a weak exhale, lifting her head—then froze. Her stare fixed on something over my shoulder, something farther up the footpath. Its silver reflection, just a speck in the darkness, shone bright in her eyes. Whoever or whatever it was, it approached not from shore, but from the depths of L’Eau Mélancolique. I tensed instinctively. A face drifted in my mind’s eye from Nicholina’s memories, and suspicion lifted the hair at my neck. Gooseflesh rose on my arms.

When Josephine turned ashen, however, I knew. When she stumbled—actually stumbled—back a step, I clutched Reid tighter in my lap, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. Several of the blood witches fled without a word. My gaze remained locked on Coco as the silver speck in her eyes grew larger. Nearer. Too near now to ignore.

I twisted to look over my shoulder at last.

And there she was.

A full-body chill swept through me at the sight of her: tall and statuesque with thick black curls and rich brown skin, nearly identical to Coco in every way. Except for the eyes. At some point between Nicholina’s memory and now, they’d turned a pale, icy shade. Her gown matched the peculiar color—the iridescent fabric swirling between white and green and purple and blue—and rippled in the breeze as she approached. Like a goddamn fairy-tale princess.

She stopped a pace behind me. I might’ve gaped. My mouth might’ve fallen open like a bug-eyed fish. Up close, she appeared even more beautiful than from afar: her face perfectly heart-shaped, her lips perfectly bowed. Silver powder dusted her cheeks and nose, as well as her brow and collarbones, and ornate moonstone jewelry gleamed from her fingers, her wrists, her ears, her throat. She’d braided her hair around a teardrop opal headpiece. The precious stone glittered against her forehead.

Her dress and hair continued to undulate gently, even after the breeze waned.

She smiled down at me.

“Angelica,” I whispered in awe.

“Sister,” Josephine hissed.

But it was Coco’s whispered accusation that changed everything. “Mother.”