Coco pulled away halfheartedly. “I told you I don’t want to talk.”

“You must.”

“No—”

Angelica dropped her voice to a fervent whisper, drawing closer, but in the silence, her voice still carried. We heard every word. “Please understand. I never wanted to leave you, but the thought of you trapped underwater for your entire life—like a fish in a bowl, examined and admired and wooed—I couldn’t bear it. You deserved so much more. Believe me. I have watched you always, desperate to join you on the surface.”

Now Coco did tear her hands away. “So why didn’t you?”

“You know that answer.”

“I know you’re afraid.”

“You’re right,” Angelica continued to whisper, “I abandoned you to a cruel woman in hopes that she would love you, that she would give you the tools to chart your own path—and she did. You outgrew her. You’ve outgrown us both.”

“Talk to me, Chass,” I hissed, wishing desperately that Beau hadn’t thieved my earplugs.

He regarded me with open suspicion. “About what?”

“Anything. Whatever comes to—”

“You can try to justify it all you’d like.” Coco didn’t bother to lower her voice. “How many times did I visit this beach, crying for you? How many times did you ignore me?”

“You would’ve lived a half life with me, Cosette. I wanted more for you.”

Unable to help myself, I glanced behind to see Coco staring at her mother incredulously. “What about what I wanted, maman? You and tante—all either of you have ever cared about is this stupid feud. I’m the collateral damage, aren’t I? I’m the one who suffers.”

“We all have suffered,” Angelica said sharply. “Do not mistake me, Cosette. Your aunt and I were among the very first of witchkind. Yes”—she nodded at Coco’s dumbfound expression—“I have lived a hundred lives. Perhaps more, even. Time passed differently then.” To me, she lifted an impatient hand. “Come, Louise le Blanc. You should hear this too. A battle brews on the horizon more catastrophic than this world has ever seen, and we must all play our parts. This is mine.”

I crept closer tentatively. “We really don’t have time for this. Morgane has already started for Cesarine—”

“If you wish to defeat your mother—and my sister—you will make time.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and in the next second, she’d drawn a thin blade from her sleeve, slicing it across the palm of each hand. Her blood spilled thick upon the sand, and from it, black vines curled upward into the shape of chairs. She pointed to them, blood still trickling down her wrists. Tiny blooms of purple aconite sprouted where it dripped to the beach. “Sit. Now. I will not ask again.”

Aconite meant caution.