Are you sure? Think hard, Reid. Please. Just think. I’m Lou, remember? I’m your wife.

Wanted dead or alive under suspicion of murder, conspiracy, and witchcraft.

I viciously rejected each thought. They simply weren’t true. And despite what this creature claimed, they didn’t feel right. They felt wrong in every way. Unnatural. I gripped the reins tighter, spurring our horse faster. I needed to recenter. To refocus. Plunging a knife in a witch’s heart should do the trick. A simple, logical solution.

Even better if she had freckles.

Winter Wonderland

Lou

I wasn’t prepared to return to Chateau le Blanc. A chill skittered down my spine at the familiarity of the wind here, the taste of the salt and pine and magic. Beyond the eerie mist of L’Eau Mélancolique, waves crashed and gulls cried. The former had lulled me to sleep every night as a child—and the latter had woken me each morning. My bedroom window had overlooked the sea.

“Stop.” Though I said the word quietly, Jean Luc pulled on the reins of his horse, turning to face me. “We should walk from here. My sisters stalk these trees at night.”

To my surprise, he nodded and complied without argument or scorn. Reid, however, stiffened and shook his head. “Your sisters.”

“Do you have any?” Sliding from the saddle, I voiced the question with casual nonchalance. I knew the answer, of course, but he didn’t know that. I’d spooked him before with talk of wives and magic. His physical response to me hadn’t helped. If I had any chance of rekindling what we’d once had, it would take more than seduction. More than pleas. I’d need to fall in love with him all over again—the person he was now—and he would need to fall in love with me. When he didn’t answer, I tried to clarify. “Sisters, I mean.”

“I knew what you meant,” he said shortly.

Right.

I’d forgotten he was now an ass.

Jean Luc and Coco worked on tying the horses to trees while Célie and Beau approached. Beau rubbed his hands together against the cold. “What’s the plan? We charge in, swords drawn, banners flying?”

“Morgane would kill us before we even crossed the bridge.” My eyes snagged on Célie’s hands. She’d clasped them at her waist, the picture of propriety—except for the needle sticking between them. “What is that?”

Slowly, she uncurled her fingers, revealing a crude metal syringe. She didn’t cower or flinch beneath my black gaze as she said, matter-of-fact, “An injection. I lost it at the beach, but Elvire returned it to me. I plan to stab it in your mother’s throat.”

“Ah.” Coco and I shared an incredulous glance. “Well, if that’s all.”