He seized Lou’s chin. “This witch, this she-devil, may resemble a woman—your mother, perhaps. Your sister or daughter. It is not them, dear ones. It is not human at all, and it is certainly not capable of love. No, this demoness has cursed our kingdom with death and destruction. It has stolen your children and livelihoods, corrupted our once great and noble protector.” Dropping her chin, he turned to me, lip curling. I fought for sensation in my hands. Any sensation. The golden patterns flickered.

“Reid Diggory.” He shook his head. “Traitor. Murderer. Witch. You are this kingdom’s greatest disappointment.”

Behind him, Achille rolled his eyes.

I frowned at the incongruent gesture. The first needle of awareness pierced my palm as Lou’s head lifted.

“Lou,” I whispered desperately.

It fell once more.

“Hear me and hear me well!” Auguste raised his arms, the torch, with wild passion in his gaze. The people watched with bated breath, following the torch’s trajectory hungrily. “I shall not be deceived again, loving people! I have captured this great foe, and with their deaths, we shall alight on a path of victory and salvation. I shall lead you through it. The Lyon legacy shall endure!”

Great cries rose from the crowd at the last, evoked by Father Gaspard. They stomped their feet, clapped their hands, even as Philippe and his Chasseurs exchanged cautious glances. Moonbeam hair flashed. Thrusting the torch toward Achille, Auguste said, “Do it, Father. Kill them—kill these creatures you so pity—or you shall join them in Hell.”

Though Achille hesitated, he had no choice. His fingers curled slowly around the torch. My frown deepened. They looked . . . straighter than I remembered. The skin younger. Tawny and smooth. When my gaze snapped to his face, his cheeks seemed to broaden, to move, the bones inching higher. His eyes lengthened. His nose too. His grizzled beard fell out in pieces, his hair deepened, and his skin—the wrinkles faded as he winked at me.

Then he turned to the king. “You know, père,” he drawled, the last of Father Achille’s features melting with the words, “it’s rich of you to speak of great disappointments.”

Disgusted, Beau shook his head.

I gaped at him.

Beau.

“But you—you were—” Mouth slack, Auguste raked his eyes over his son before his teeth snapped together audibly. A vein bulged in his forehead. “Magic.”

The real Father Achille emerged from an alley behind the cathedral. Expression hard, he held the hand of the auburn-haired girl from earlier. With a cheery wave, Claud Deveraux stepped from behind, and—and Coco. She grinned at me in triumph, blowing a kiss. The cut on her palm still bled.

They’d come.

Relief so keen I nearly laughed swept through me.

Lou expelled a ragged breath. “Reid . . .”

The tingling in my palm spread to my fingers. The patterns began to sharpen. “I’m here, Lou. They’re all here.”