Details rushed in quickly after that, disorienting my senses—the steps of the cathedral, the wooden platform, the warm presence at my back. “Lou.” The word slurred on my tongue from the hemlock. My head pounded. I struggled to crane my neck. “Lou.” Her hair spilled over my shoulder, and her head lolled. She didn’t respond. Unconscious. I strained in earnest now, trying to see her, but my body refused to obey. Someone had removed the blue-tipped arrows, at least. They’d clothed her in a clean chemise. Anger fanned as quickly as the drug at that fresh injustice. A Chasseur had undressed her. Why?

I glanced down at my own simple shirt and woolen trousers. They’d removed my boots.

Leather doesn’t burn.

Blue coats lined the streets, forming a barricade. They kept the crowd at bay. My eyes narrowed, and I blinked slowly, waiting for the scene to sharpen. Philippe stood among them. Jean Luc too. I recognized his black hair. His broad neck and bronze skin. He didn’t look at me, his attention focused on Célie, who stood at the front of the crowd with her parents. No Coco. No Beau. No Claud or Blaise or Zenna.

No one.

“Lou.” Careful not to move my lips—to keep my voice quiet—I tried to nudge her with my elbow. My arms wouldn’t move. “Can you . . . hear me?”

She might’ve stirred. Just a little.

More shouts sounded as a child broke free of the line. A little girl. She chased a . . . ball. She chased a ball. It rolled to a stop at the base of the platform. “You aren’t as tall as I thought you’d be,” she mused, peering up at me beneath auburn fringe. Familiar. My eyes fluttered. There were two of her now. No—another child had joined her. A pale boy with shadows in his eyes. He held her hand with a solemn expression. Though I’d never seen it before, I almost recognized his face.

“Do not lose hope, monsieur,” he whispered.

Another shout. A Chasseur strode forward to shoo them away.

My mouth couldn’t properly form the words. “Do I . . . know you?”

“Le visage de beaucoup,” he said with an unnerving smile. It pitched and rolled with my vision. Garish in the firelight. “Le visage d’aucun.” His voice faded as he trailed away.

The face always seen, the face never remembered.

Meaningless words. Nonsensical ones. “Lou,” I pleaded, louder now. Desperate. “Wake up. You have to wake up.”

She didn’t wake.

Imperious laughter beside me. Golden patterns. No—hair. Auguste stepped into my line of vision, a torch in one hand. The flames burned not orange, but black as pitch. Hellfire. Eternal fire. “You’re awake. Good.”