Beau’s hands fell to his hips. “What are we supposed to do, then? We have an empty bandolier, a negligent god, and”—he gestured to Nicholina in distaste—“an abysmal poet. Oh, don’t give me that look. Your work is derivative at best and juvenile at worst.” His frown deepened as he looked to each of us in turn. “What else is there?”

I’m sick with hope, but I can’t make it go away. It’s still here, even now. Poisoning me.

Only the sound of the waves answered.

And there it was.

I met Coco’s gaze directly. “We don’t have a choice.”

Shaking her head with regret, she closed her eyes and whispered, “The Wistful Waters.”

Part II

La nuit porte conseil.

The night brings advice.

—French proverb

Death at the Waters

Nicholina

The huntsman and the princess mean to punish me with their poisoned ropes, but we relish the friction. We rub until our wrists are raw. Until her wrists are raw. Because it’s the mouse and her huntsman who suffer most—she cannot feel it, no, but he can. He knows she’s trapped. She knows it too. She doesn’t see the gold as we do. Though she summons it, though she pleads, it cannot listen. We will not let it. And if voices not our own murmur a warning, if they hiss—if they know we do not belong—the patterns cannot fix it. They can only obey.

We can only obey.

Even if something is wrong. Even if below the gold magic, a newfound presence lingers. A newfound presence waits. I do not like it. I cannot use it. Unknown to the mouse, it coils like a snake preparing to strike, to protect. It is a gift, and it frightens us.

We cannot be frightened.

They were never meant to know, to suspect. Now they gather their packs to find L’Eau Mélancolique. Nasty waters. Cursed waters. They hide secrets but reveal them too, oh yes. But they cannot reveal this one. Not mine. They cannot spill its truth.

The princeling watches me while the others pack, but he watches his princess more. It matters not. We do not want to escape. They seek L’Eau Mélancolique, but Chateau le Blanc is its sister. Its neighbor. We will not struggle. We will not fight. Though our right hand is numb, they do not know our left has sensation. Has pain. We can move through pain. And the gold cannot respond to the mouse, no, but it must respond to us. Though I fear it—though it does not trust me—we will send a message. It is necessary.

The gold bursts in a delicate spray as the letters carve themselves into our flesh. Into our back. THEY KNOW. And then—DEATH AT THE WATERS.

Our mistress will not be pleased with us.