“Please—” Beau turned helplessly to Lou, who sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, folding her soiled clothes and replacing them in her pack. My stomach twisted anew at the sight of her. Fresh bile rose in my throat. She hadn’t acknowledged anyone this morning. Including me. I could’ve been sick from shame alone—from the memory of her skin, soft and sweet. Its scent haunted me still.

I’d dared her to kiss me.

Stalking to the washbowl to splash my face, I swallowed acid.

When she didn’t answer, Beau tapped her shoulder, and she looked up with a vacant expression. Her face wan. Her freckles stark. “Can you force them to shut up somehow?” he asked her. “Perhaps solder their vocal cords?”

Lou lifted a hand to her ears, pulling a small piece of fabric from each of them. “What’s that?”

We all stared at her.

Earplugs. She’d made earplugs from a piece of the innkeeper’s quilt. Beau snatched them from her with an air of reverence, stuffing them into his own ears. “You’re an evil genius.”

But Lou didn’t laugh. She only blinked. Her eyes focused on the room slowly, as if she’d been lost in thought. She still held an undergarment in one hand when she asked, “Should we send word to Claud somehow? About Morgane?” The hateful woman’s words echoed between us: The time is now. The trees have mobilized, and we shall follow, striking hard and true while the conclave deliberates. “We should really warn Blaise too, and both should know about Isla. We can coordinate some sort of defense—”

I couldn’t prevent a scoff. “You think mermaids and werewolves can coordinate anything?”

Her gaze sharpened abruptly. “I think every plan we’ve ever coordinated has been complete and utter shit and ended in total disaster.”

“We need them,” Coco agreed firmly, cinching her bag and standing. “I’ll send word to them from the beach.” She paused. “After Isla agrees to help us.”

As one, we all looked to the ring on Lou’s finger. She twisted it nervously. “Do you think we can trust her?” Her eyes met Coco’s across the room. “Can we trust your mother?”

“We held up our end of the agreement.” Coco shrugged. “And the waters prevent falsehood.”

“Right.” Lou continued twisting the ring. Twisting and twisting and twisting. “And—what’s the conclave? What are they deliberating?”

It was Jean Luc who answered. “Religious leaders from throughout the kingdom have gathered in Cesarine to elect a new Archbishop. They’re also”—he cleared his throat, abruptly busy with his satchel—“they’re eliciting information from Madame Labelle.”

The word fell heavy with meaning.

“Eliciting,” Lou repeated.

Jean Luc still wouldn’t look at her. “Hellfire continues to ravage the city.”

“What does eliciting mean?” Coco asked him, undeterred.

“You know what it means.”