The patterns continued to wander. A vessel nearly burst in my forehead now. I lost track of the others’ conversation entirely. Please. Please. Help me save her.

At the last request, the patterns thrummed, growing brighter and collecting into a single cord. Those familiar voices whispered in my ear—save her, save her, save her—as I followed the pattern to a face.

To . . . to Morgane’s face.

My entire body recoiled in realization, in horror, and my eyes snapped open. Not that. Anything but that. The cost would be too great, no matter the outcome.

Still hovering around Nicholina, the others blinked at me. “Er . . .” Beau’s brows dipped. “Are you constipated, brother?”

I cast the pattern from my mind. I couldn’t act on it. I wouldn’t. “My magic won’t work.”

“If you’d been listening”—he jerked his head to Coco—“she just said the magic of one witch can’t undo another. It has to be a different kind. Something old. Something powerful.”

“What did she have in mind?”

“What do I have in mind, actually.” Sniffing, he straightened the lace cuff of his sleeve. A ridiculous display. It still dangled from his shoulder. “You’re all quite clearly forgetting we have a god at our disposal.”

“Ah, yes. King of the forest, the horned god.” Nicholina rocked back and forth, still laughing maniacally. “Out of all his names, he chose Claud.”

Coco ignored her, lips pursing in deep thought. “I could magic him a letter, but if he remains in the tunnels, it’ll burn before he sees it.”

Beau looked at her as if she were stupid. “He is a god.”

My realization dawned at the same moment hers did. “We pray to him,” I breathed.

“No.” Beau shook his head in distaste. “You pray to him. He likes you better than me.”

“Everyone likes me better than you.”

“Coco doesn’t.”

“I don’t like either of you,” she said irritably. “I also don’t pray.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Just do it, Reid.”

They all looked to me then: Beau petulant, Coco impatient, Célie apprehensive. Heat crept up my throat at the judgment in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. To her credit, she didn’t speak. Didn’t express any objection, any disapproval. Nicholina had no problem doing it for her. Her voice floated up on a croon. “Pray, huntsman. Pray to the old gods. Will your god mind, I wonder? Will he open the ground and cast you under?”