Then she closed her eyes and exhaled. Her entire body relaxed into the movement, shedding its withered skin until she no longer resembled the Crone but a young woman once more. A vibrant young woman. A witch, my mind chastised. A vibrant young witch. Still, with her eyes closed, I couldn’t help but study her. Long brown hair and elfin features. Sharp-cut eyes. Sun-kissed freckles. At her throat, a ring of thorns circled her golden skin. Roses too.

Why can’t I be both?

The inexplicable urge to touch her nearly overpowered me. To trace the delicate curve of her nose. The bold arch of brow. I resisted the mad impulse. Only fools coveted beautiful and deadly things. I wasn’t a fool. I didn’t covet. And I certainly didn’t want to touch a witch, regardless of how she looked at me.

She looked at me like I belonged to her and she belonged to me.

“It’s a lock,” she breathed eventually, her face contorting with strain. Sweat glistened on her brow. “The magic. I’m the key. La Dame des Sorcières cast the enchantment, and only she can break it. But I”—her eyes screwed tighter—“the webs, they’re all fixed—I can’t move them. They’re like iron.”

“You believe it a lock?” Célie approached the door hesitantly. “Pin and tumbler or warded?”

Eyes still closed, Lou pursed her lips. I tore my gaze away. “I’m not sure. It’s like—it’s like I’m inside it, if that makes sense—”

“Description, please!”

“I can’t describe the inside of a lock, Célie! I’ve never seen one!”

“Well, I have, and—”

“You have?” Jean Luc asked incredulously. “When?”

“Everyone needs a hobby.” Resolute now, she shouldered past him to face Lou, grasping her hands. “I picked the lock on my father’s vault, and I can help you pick this one too. Now, tell me, do the patterns have notches and slots, or do they more resemble a counting frame? Are there three or more parallel rows?”

Lou grimaced. So did Jean Luc. “No rows,” she said, her knuckles white around Célie’s. “They might be notches. I—I can’t tell.” She inhaled sharply as if in pain. “I don’t know if I have the control for this. The magic—it’s stronger than me. I . . .” Her voice trailed off, growing faint, and she swayed on her feet.

“Nonsense.” Célie steadied her with a firm hand. “In my sister’s coffin—when I felt like I might float away—I counted the knots in the wood to ground myself. There were thirty-seven that I could see. I would count them, over and over, and I would take a breath with each one.” She squeezed Lou’s hands. “Listen to my voice and breathe.” Then— “You need a skeleton key.”