She sniffed reprovingly. “Nothing at all.”

My frown deepened.

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?” Beau smirked, arching a brow. “Clever little minx. I suppose it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

Groaning at the implication, I buried my face in my hands. “Célie.”

“What?” Her tenuous composure snapped in an instant, and I straightened. Startled. In all the years I’d known her, Célie didn’t snap. “You needn’t worry about them sending the kingdom after me, Reid. When I last disappeared, it took quite some time before help arrived, if you care to remember. Heaven forbid anyone know my father cannot control his own household.”

I blinked to hide my shock. Though I’d known Monsieur Tremblay had failed as a father, apparently, I’d underestimated how much. “Jean Luc will come after you. He’ll bring the whole of the Chasseurs with him.”

She shook the envelope in my face. “Jean Luc knows I am here. He watched me steal my father’s carriage, for God’s sake, and scolded me through the whole ordeal.” I stared at her. I’d never known her to thieve, either. Or take the Lord’s name in vain. She exhaled hard through her nose, stuffing the envelope into her cloak. “Regardless, I’d have thought you would appreciate my intervention. If I travel with your band of notorious witches and fugitives—pardon, Your Highness—Jean cannot arrest any of you without also arresting me. That will not happen. He will pursue you no further.”

“Oh, to have seen the look on his face.” Beau’s own face twisted as if pained. “Further proof that there is a God, and He hates me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I shoved myself to my feet, eager to end this argument. To find Father Achille and alert him of the situation, to request an additional blanket for the night. “You can’t come with us.”

Seething, she watched me pass in silent fury, her shoulders square and her spine ramrod straight. Her fingers white around her leather bag. “What I cannot do,” she finally said through clenched teeth, “is look my parents in the eye. They want to pretend nothing happened. They want to return to life as it was before. But they cannot make me.” Her voice dipped dangerously low. “You cannot make me. The thought of s-sitting at home—curtsying to noblemen, sipping tea—while Morgane remains at large physically sickens me.” When I didn’t pause my stride, she continued desperately, “She trapped me in that coffin with Filippa for weeks, Reid. Weeks. She—she t-tortured me, and she mutilated those children. What I cannot do is nothing.”

I froze at the pulpit. Surely I’d misheard her. Surely this sudden dread in my chest—it was misplaced. I didn’t turn. “She what?”

A sniff in response. “Do not make me repeat it,” she said.