“I must say”—Monsieur Laurent sampled his own glass, leaning against the table with the air of a man getting comfortable—“I was quite shocked to see you on my doorstep, Captain.” He chuckled. “Well, I don’t have to tell you, do I? Apologies again for the less than warm welcome. One can never be too safe these days. The witches are getting bolder, and they’re thick in these parts. You should hear the ghastly sounds of the forest at night.” Shuddering, he readjusted his nightcap, revealing a high, balding forehead. Despite his casual tone, beads of nervous sweat gleamed there. He feared Jean Luc. No—my eyes narrowed shrewdly—he feared Jean’s blue coat. “Anyway, I assumed most Chasseurs would be in Cesarine with the conclave.” He took another hearty drink of whiskey. “I assume you heard news of the trials?”

Jean Luc—who, to my knowledge, hadn’t heard news of any such thing—nodded and emptied his glass. “I’m forbidden to speak on such matters.”

“Ah, of course, of course. Very good of you, sir.” When Monsieur Laurent moved to refill his glass, Jean Luc shook his head, and the innkeeper’s expression fell. He recovered from his disappointment almost immediately, however, perhaps a touch relieved, and downed the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow. “I shall leave you to it, then. Please accept the bottle as a mark of our thanks—it isn’t every day one houses a hero. We are honored, sir, just honored, to have you here.”

Reid lay so still and so tense he might’ve grown roots beneath this bed. Jaw clenched, he glared at the slats overhead without blinking as Monsieur Laurent showed himself from the room, and Jean Luc closed the door once more. The key clicked in the lock.

Reid didn’t move for a second, clearly grappling with his desire to flee from me and his desire to hide from Jean Luc forever. I studied his rigid profile in the backlight. I supposed it . . . hurt. To hear Monsieur Laurent’s reverence for the person he used to be, the person he could never be again. Jean Luc held that honor now, though truthfully, if he kept hiding witches under his bed, that privilege wouldn’t be his for much longer either. Unable to help it, I brushed a lock of copper hair from Reid’s forehead. “He doesn’t know.”

“Who doesn’t know what?” he snapped.

“The innkeeper. He doesn’t know who he has here.” When he shook his head, disgusted—at me, at himself, at the entire situation—I said firmly, “He doesn’t know what heroism means.”

“And you do?” He turned to sneer at me. “Are you a hero, Louise le Blanc?”

“No. But you are.”