The man chuckled but complied. “All right.” Slowly, I turned my head to look at him. “You’re built like a tree, and I don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you and I head on up for a pint and leave poor Calot here alone?”

Calot pointed to something beside us before I could answer. A piece of paper. It fluttered in the evening breeze, tacked to the message post beside the door. I looked closer. A picture of my own face glared back at me.

REID DIGGORY

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

UNDER SUSPICION OF MURDER, CONSPIRACY, AND WITCHCRAFT.

REWARD.

The sick feeling in my stomach increased tenfold.

It couldn’t be true. Though my memory felt—off, surely I would know if I—if—

I swallowed bile. There were too many gaps. I couldn’t be sure of anything, and these men—their amicable nature vanished instantly. “Holy shit,” one breathed. His companion hastened to yank the sword from his scabbard. I lifted my hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I don’t want any trouble either. I came to gather men. There are witches three miles up the road. Two of them. They—”

“We know who they are,” the bearded man growled, jabbing a finger at the other posters. More men from the pub headed toward us now. They drew weapons as they came. Calot shrank into the shadows of the foyer. “You travel with them. They even say one is your wife. Mort Rouge and Sommeil Éternel, they call you.” He too drew a set of knives from his belt. They gleamed sharp and polished in the setting sun. Well used. “You killed the Archbishop. You set the capital aflame.”

My eyes narrowed. A tendril of old anger unfurled. Of disgust. “I would never marry a witch.”

“Is this some sort of hoax?” his friend asked uncertainly.

The bearded man jerked his chin. “Ride to Hacqueville. See if that Chasseur is still there. We’ll hold him.”

“That Chasseur?” My voice sharpened. “Who?”

Instead of answering, the man charged, and the anger simmering in my gut exploded. We collided with bone-shattering impact, and Calot squeaked again before slamming the parish door shut. I threw the bearded man against it. “This is ridiculous. We’re on the same—”

His unharmed friend leapt atop my back, wrapping an arm around my neck. Fisting his hair, I wrenched him over my shoulders and drew a knife from my bandolier. Each dove out of reach as I slashed it in front of me. “Fine. You want to challenge me? You’ll lose. I’m the youngest captain of the Chasseurs in history—”

“Were.” The bearded man stepped around me in a circle. His friend stepped behind. “You were a captain of the Chasseurs. Now you’re a witch.”