“Oh my god,” I breathed, recoiling. The bars felt abruptly cold beneath my touch. Oppressive. “They cut it down. Your Balisarda.”

Beside me, Reid closed his eyes in acknowledgment, in defeat, pressing his forehead against the wood. Voice strained, he asked, “How did they even find it?”

“It was along the road. Bas and his cronies called for the Chasseurs when they found us.” On a hunch, I pressed a finger to one of the bars. The white patterns dimmed almost instantly in response. No. No, no, no. “They would’ve seen it straightaway—a great tree with silver bark and black fruit and lethal thorns.”

“Can you magic us out?”

I released the bar again, returning to the middle of the cage, equal distance from all sides. Though the white patterns flared once more, they floated untethered when they reached the bars, unable to touch them or move past them. Not a promising sign. Closing my eyes, focusing my energy, I sought the lock on the bars—simpler than the one on the treasury door of Chateau le Blanc, made of iron, yet strategically placed outside the magic wood. The harder I tried to reach it, the more the pattern frayed until it disintegrated completely. “Fuck.”

To his credit, Reid didn’t even flinch. Instead he gripped the bars in earnest, testing their weight. “I can break them.”

“You have a broken finger.”

That didn’t stop him from trying to snap the wood for the next ten minutes. Knuckles bloody, arms shaking, he finally punched the bar with all his might, succeeding in only breaking another finger. When he cocked his fist to strike again, furious, I rolled my eyes and dragged him back to the center of the cage. “Yes, thank you. That was helpful.”

“What are we going to do?” He tore a frustrated hand through his hair. I caught it before he could damage it further. His broken fingers had swelled to twice their normal size, and blood welled dark and purple beneath the skin. He turned away. “This brilliant plan of yours has a few holes.”

I repressed a scowl, wrapping another pattern around his hand. “I can’t control every variable, Reid. At least this one didn’t involve mustaches and crutches. Now shut it, or I’ll give you a real hole to complain about.” An empty threat. The Chasseurs had disarmed both of us before throwing us in here.

“Is that supposed to be innuendo? I can never tell with you.”

I jerked at the pattern, and it snapped his fingers back into place, shattering my irritation in the process. He winced and wrenched his hand—now completely healed—out of mine. “Thank you,” he muttered after another moment. “And . . . sorry.” The word sounded pained.