I grabbed Reid’s sleeve and forced him to sit, sinking into my own chair without further argument. Opposite me, Coco did the same, and Angelica stood in the center of our macabre little circle. She pivoted slowly to look each of us directly in the eyes. “This is your story—all of yours—so listen now and listen well. In the beginning, magic lived within all witches. Yes, you heard me correctly, Louise,” she added when I tried to interrupt. “Though you call us Dames Rouges now, your ancestors’ magic was closer to ours than to yours. It coursed through their blood, hummed in their veins. They lived in harmony with nature, never taking more than they gave and never defying the natural way. They lived. They died. They thrived.” She bowed her head. “I was one of these original witches, as was my twin sister, Josephine.”

“What happened?” Coco whispered.

Angelica sighed. “What always happens? In time, some among us desired more—more power, more freedom, more life. When a sect of my kin began experimenting with death, a great rift rose between us.” Angelica knelt before Coco now, clasping her hands once more. “Your aunt was among them. I pleaded with Josephine to turn back, to forget this obsession with immortality, but when I caught her eating an infant’s heart, I could ignore her sickness no longer. I had to act.” A new vine crept up Coco’s chair from Angelica’s tears. Like the aconite, its petals bloomed purple, but this wasn’t aconite at all. It was deadly nightshade. “I forbade my sister from returning to Chateau le Blanc.”

“You lived there?” I asked in astonishment.

“We all did. That is what I’m trying to tell you, Louise—this is the great rift between Dame Blanche and Dame Rouge. Though I forbade Josephine from returning, she did not heed my warning, instead gathering the like-minded and organizing a rebellion.” Shuddering, she pushed to her feet, and the belladonna vine slithered higher, curling around the back of Coco’s chair. “I’ve never seen such blood.”

I stared at her, heart pounding, as another memory resurfaced: blood running as a river from the temple, soaking the hair and hems of fallen witches in its path. The Rift. And suddenly, it made sense—I hadn’t seen Coco within this memory at all. I’d seen Angelica. Angelica had been the faceless woman.

She closed her eyes now. “They killed them. Our kin. Our mothers and sisters and aunts and nieces—all gone within a single night, butchered like animals. Despite everything, however, Josephine couldn’t kill me. Not after our blood oath.”

“She couldn’t torture you,” I said in dawning realization.