I am disappointed, Nicholina, she will say. I told you to kill them all.

We glance at our wrists. At the red smear of blood there. Her blood. La Princesse Rouge. Kill them all, she will say. Except the princesses.

Except the princesses.

More potent than pain—more potent than magic—our fury simmers and bubbles, a poison all its own. Noxious. We must not kill her. Though she has forsaken her family, forsaken my mistress, we must obey.

We must make our mistress proud. We must show her. Then she will realize our worth, yes, she will realize our love. She will never speak of her treacherous niece again. But the others . . .

I will drown them in L’Eau Mélancolique.

They think they’ve trapped me with their ropes, with their threats, with their bane, but their threats ring empty. They know nothing of pain. No, no, no, true pain lies outside the sensation of blood and skin. It lies beyond blisters.

It lies deep within.

The mice continue squeaking as the huntsman pulls me forward. Rocks line the path at the edge of the forest. Above us, thick smoke still darkens the afternoon sky. Below, waves crash tumultuously, oh yes. They warn of a storm. Of calamity. Do not fret, little mouse, we tell the princess, inhaling deep. Reveling. The dead should not remember.

I am not dead.

Soon, we promise. Very soon, your mother shall devour your body, and we in turn shall devour the rest. Like a mouse in a trap.

One might say you’re the mouse now, Nicholina.

Oh?

My mice press closer, ever curious, and we smile as the huntsman scowls over his shoulder. “Is something funny?” he snaps. Though we smile all the wider, we will not answer. He cannot stand our silence. It aggrieves him, and he expels a sharp breath through his nose, muttering a promise of violence. We welcome it. Relish it.

The mouse continues without hearing his words. We laugh because he cannot hear hers either.

It’s true, she insists. The others were never meant to know about La Voisin’s betrayal. They were never meant to know about you. But you failed at the lighthouse, and Morgane won’t forget it. I know my mother. You’ve broken her trust. She’ll kill you at the first opportunity—like a mouse in a trap.

We scoff through her nose, smile vanishing. Our mistress will protect us.

Your mistress will sacrifice you for the greater good. Just like my mother will sacrifice me. As if sensing something within us—she senses nothing—she pushes brazenly against our consciousness. We feel each kick, each elbow, though she has no feet or arms. It matters not. She cannot touch us, and soon she will fade into the others. Soon she will be ours. You’ve chosen the wrong side, Nicholina. You’ve lost. Reid and Coco will never allow us near the Chateau now.