As I walked back to Lou, however, I heard low voices down a side street. Familiar ones. A keening wail. Frowning, I followed the sound to Gabrielle and Violette. They stood huddled on a stoop between Beau, who’d wrapped one arm around each of them. Coco hovered behind, one hand clapped to her mouth. At their feet, Ismay and Victoire lay sprawled unnaturally, facedown, surrounded by a half-dozen witches. None stirred.

Stricken, unable to move, I watched as Beau’s face broke on a sob, and he pulled the two girls into his chest. Their shoulders shuddered as they clutched him. Their tears raw. Anguished. Intimate. The sight of them punched me in the gut. My siblings. Though I hadn’t known Victoire as well as Beau, I could have. I would have. The pain cut unexpectedly sharp.

It should’ve been me on those cobblestones. Morgane had wanted me, not her. She’d wanted Beau. Not Victoire, a thirteen-year-old child.

Guilt reared its ugly head, and I finally turned. I walked back to Lou. I waited.

This time, she lifted her head to greet me.

I held her gaze.

Nodding, she smoothed Morgane’s hair, her touch tender. Full of longing. She closed her mother’s eyes. Then she rose heavily to her feet—bent as if bearing the weight of the very sky—and she left her there.

When she crossed the bridge, I extended my arms to her at last, and she fell into them without a sound. Her face pale and drawn. Broken-hearted. I leaned to rest my forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”

She held my face between both hands. Closed her eyes. “Me too.”

“We’ll get through this together.”

“I know.”

“Where you go—”

“—I will go,” she finished softly. Her eyes opened, and she brushed a kiss against my lips. “Who survived?”

“Let’s find out.”

As I’d suspected, the chasm split the entire city in two. Lou and I walked it hand in hand. Near the cathedral, we found Toulouse and Thierry. They stared into the chasm’s depths with Zenna and Seraphine. No one spoke a word.

“What do you think happened to him?” Lou whispered, slowing to a stop. This wake wasn’t meant for us. It was meant for them. Troupe de Fortune. Claud’s family. “Do you think he . . . died?”

I frowned at the prospect. Pressure built in my chest. Behind my eyes. “I don’t think gods can die.”