The air in the passage tasted stale, damp, and the moss on the stones muted our footsteps. A good thing too—for at that exact moment, a door cracked open ahead, and three figures spilled out into the semidarkness. I froze mid-step, my heart pounding in my ears. I heard their voices before I saw their faces.

Morgane, Josephine, and Nicholina.

They strode forward, deep in harried conversation, and I seized Reid before they could see us, pushing him into the nearest alcove. Célie and Jean Luc barreled in behind as Coco and Beau did the same across the hall. The space was too small, however. My cheek smashed against Reid’s chest, and behind me, Jean Luc’s knee stabbed my thigh. Célie trembled visibly. Contorting my arm, I wrapped it around her to hide the movement and comfort her in equal measure. No one dared breathe.

“I do not care what you say,” Morgane hissed at Josephine, visibly agitated. She’d swept her white hair into a tangled braid, and her eyes remained shot through with blood. Fatigue lent a grayish hue to her skin. “The time is now. I tire of these incessant games. The trees have mobilized, and we shall follow, striking hard and true while the conclave deliberates.”

Josephine shook her head curtly. “I do not think this wise. We must proceed with the plan as scheduled. Your daughter, the king’s children, they will—”

Morgane wheeled to face her, nostrils flaring with sudden rage. “For the last time, Josephine, I do not have a daughter, and if I must repeat myself again, I shall rend your tongue from your miserable throat.”

I do not have a daughter.

Ah. My heart twisted unexpectedly. Though I’d suspected she’d forgotten me, suspecting the truth versus knowing it—versus hearing it—were two entirely different things. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but here, in my childhood home—surrounded by sisters who’d cheered as my blood had spilled—it . . . pinched. Just a bit. I searched Reid’s shadowed face. This close, I could see the shape of his eyes, the set of his mouth. He glared back at me.

I looked away.

Cackling, Nicholina sang, “The dead should not remember. Beware the night the dream. For in their chest is memory—”

Morgane struck her across the face without warning. The angry crack resounded through the passage.

“You do not speak”—a vein pulsed in my mother’s forehead—“you do not breathe unless I will it. How many times must I punish you before you understand?” When she lifted her hand once more, Nicholina flinched. She actually flinched. Instead of striking her, however, Morgane rapped her knuckles across Nicholina’s forehead. “Well? How many? Or are your ears as addled as your brain, you worthless imp?”

Nicholina withdrew visibly at the insult, her expression emptying. She stared past Morgane as a red handprint bloomed on her cheek.