“I’m a thief, Reid.” Gaze suddenly alert, she glanced from the cart to the street, assessing the landscape. Tracking the couple closest us. They strolled past hand in hand, oblivious to our presence. When I stepped in front of her, blocking her view, she smirked. “Lou is a thief too, you know. And as soon as we’ve saved her, you can soak in your virtue until your fingers wrinkle with it. Until then . . .” She slipped past me, lifting a casual shoulder. “We need these pearls. It’s better if no one sees our faces.” Her eyes lit on something behind me, and she laughed, tossing them my way. “Perfect. A reward for your silence.”

I caught the leather pants against my chest. “This isn’t funny.”

“Au contraire. Lou is going to need a laugh after all of this.” Her smirk faded then. “You told me to hope, Reid, but hope means nothing without action. I will do whatever it takes to save her. Whatever it takes. Are you willing to do the same? Or shall Lou fall on the sword of your principles?”

I glared at her.

“Fabulous. Now. Don’t move. You make an excellent shield.”

Jaw clenched, I crushed the leather in my fist, watching as she sauntered toward the pearls. When Nicholina moved to knock them aside with her elbow, I caught the rope, untying it from Coco with deft fingers. I wrapped it around my own wrist instead. When Coco glanced back at me, I nodded. This wasn’t right, but Lou wasn’t right, either. The world wasn’t right. After L’Eau Mélancolique, I would pay Madame Sauvage back with interest. I would find a dozen black pearls to replace these three, and—

Wait.

Only three?

“There are five of us,” I said.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Heart leaping to my throat, I whirled toward the new voice. Coco’s hand froze above the pearls. An elderly woman stepped around the cart, her shoulders stooped and her face deeply lined. She wore an olive scarf around her silver hair. Innumerable rings on her ears, her fingers, her toes. Her bare toes. An emerald cloak dragged on the ground behind. She grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “Humans can’t enter L’Eau Mélancolique. The waters drive them mad.”

Nicholina hissed beneath her hood, drawing into me.

I studied the woman. “Have we . . . met before, madame?”

“Perhaps? Then again, perhaps not. I have one of those faces, I fear. Le visage de beaucoup, le visage d’aucun. The face always seen—”

“—the face never remembered,” I finished the old adage by rote. But . . .

Her smile turned knowing. “Hello, dearies. Welcome to my cabinet of curiosities. How may I serve you today?”