Lou sauntered forward, still grinning. I refused to retreat a step. Not a single one. “I could pose the same question to you, Chass.” She batted her lashes and trailed a finger across my chest. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

I caught her wrist and stepped closer. Baring my teeth. I longed for my Balisarda. “Hardly. You’ve clearly tampered with my memories, witch. I want them back.”

She tilted her face toward mine, unperturbed. “Hmm. I don’t think I can help you with that.”

“You can, and you will.”

“Only the witch who cast the enchantment can break it.” Coco’s hip knocked into Lou as she swept past us, pushing Lou flush against me. She winked. “In this case, that means you.”

My jaw clenched, and I lifted my hands to Lou’s shoulders to forcibly remove her. “You lie.”

“Why would we lie? Trust us when we say you aren’t exactly fun to be around—not like this anyway. If there was a way for us to reverse your memory, we would’ve already done it.” Coco lifted a shoulder as she stepped on the path. “You’ll need to do it, or no one will.”

“A pity, that.” Lou thrust her pack against my chest. I caught it instinctively. “Guess you’ll have to stay with us until you figure it out.” She followed Coco without a backward glance, swaying her hips as she went. My lip curled in disgust. She wore trousers. Fitted ones. Leather. They adhered to her delicate shape in a distasteful way—indecent, even. Shaking my head, I tore my gaze away to stare at the pack in my hands.

I suspected she was anything but delicate.

“Answer the question, Jean.” Célie’s voice reclaimed my attention. She scowled up at Jean Luc, fierce and unrelenting. “You said the priests—the king—requested your presence at the conclave.”

“They did.”

“You disobeyed them?”

“I . . .” He tugged at his collar. “I had to see you.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why? Why are you here? Did you”—those accusing eyes cut to mine—“did he think I couldn’t do this? Did he think I would die at the first opportunity?”

“You did almost fall from a cliff,” Jean Luc muttered defensively. When Célie’s face contorted in shock, in outrage, he added, “What? You did. I spoke with Father Achille.”

“You spoke with Father Achille?” Célie’s voice could’ve frozen water. Abruptly, she stepped away from him, her neck and spine snapping impossibly straight. Taut as a bow. “Have you been following me?”

“I—well, I—of course I have.” He rubbed a sheepish hand across his neck. “How could I not?”

“For how long?”

He hesitated, clearly reluctant. “Since . . . since Cesarine.”

Her expression emptied of all emotion. “You abandoned your post. You forsook the conclave.”