“I haven’t forgotten,” she snapped, suddenly defensive. I bristled at her tone. “Believe me, I remember what magic is. It’s just—” Tearing her gaze from the room, she turned instead to Jean Luc, to me. Her hand rose to catch a snowflake between us, and we all watched it melt on her fingertip, transfixed. No. Not transfixed—revolted. “You never told me it could be beautiful too,” she finished, softer now.

“It’s dangerous, Célie,” Jean Luc said.

She lifted her chin. “Why can’t it be both?”

We both heard what she really meant. Why can’t I be both?

Jean Luc stared at her for several seconds, tilting his head in contemplation. When at last he nodded, affirming her unspoken question, she kissed his cheek and ascended the stairs with the others. He followed behind like a devoted, lovesick puppy, and my stomach plunged as if I’d missed a step. His response shouldn’t have surprised me. Nor hers. Célie had clearly suffered from the witches’ influence, and Jean Luc would never utter a word against her.

Still, I felt . . . off, somehow—disjointed—as I jerked my chin toward Lou. She alone remained. The others had left in more than the literal sense. “Go.”

Her gap-toothed smile slipped. “Forgive me, but I’d rather not end the night with a knife in my back. You understand, I’m sure.” She wiggled her fingers in silent threat, motioning me forward.

Scowling, I followed Jean Luc. Though she’d been right in her suspicions—I did want to end her depraved existence—I had no choice but to obey. I’d lost my Balisarda. “I thought the door was guarded by a powerful enchantment.”

Her footsteps fell heavy and clumsy behind me, her breath growing louder with each tread. Labored. I didn’t offer assistance. If she insisted on this foul magic, she would reap the reward. “That was a door,” she panted. “It wasn’t the door. Did you really think my mother would protect her most treasured possessions with only a bookshelf?”

Her most treasured possessions. The words sent a thrill of anticipation through me. Surely, something beyond this door would be useful in eliminating her—in eliminating all of them. Perhaps if I liberated it, delivered it to the new Archbishop, I could renew my vows and rejoin my brotherhood. It was where I belonged.

As quickly as the thought materialized, however, I cast it aside. If this new Archbishop accepted me so readily—me, a man guilty of murder and conspiracy—he would be no leader at all. I could not follow him. No, from this point onward, I could seek only atonement. I would kill these witches, yes, but I expected no reward. If the wanted posters had been true, I deserved none.

I would kill them nonetheless.