So I danced with all the young women and a few of their mothers, made ribald jokes with the men in the corners, flirted with the girls and discussed politics with their fathers. Time flew, and before long, I found myself in a room dark with tobacco smoke, a brandy in one hand, and cards in the other.

“You’re either the luckiest bastard to ever walk the Isle or you’re counting, Tristan,” one of the other young men muttered, eyeing his cards.

“I’m sure you’d do the same if you only had enough fingers and toes to manage the task,” I said, enjoying the laughter of the other men. I was counting the cards, I couldn’t help it, but I decided to throw my hand down rather than risk being thought a cheat. “I’m out.”

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?”

Smiles grew on the faces of the other men, and looking over my shoulder, I saw Cécile’s mother. There was no mistaking her. Setting my brandy on the table, I rose to my feet. “Madame de Troyes, your reputation precedes you.”

Her blue eyes managed to be familiar and foreign at the same time. “I should say the same of you. In the city not half a day, and already you have the gossip mills churning. You’ll have no peace.”

I shrugged. “The only thing worse than being talked about is being not talked about.”

Her mouth quirked, but her gaze was cool. “How clever.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take credit as the originator. My skill lies in repeating the words of those more creative than I.”

“False modesty is unattractive,” she said, holding out a gloved hand. “It’s how a weak man earns his praise.”

“And how does a strong man earn it?” I asked, kissing her fingers and wishing I’d been forewarned that she’d be here.

“With his actions.”

“Beautiful and wise, I see.” She must have heard Cécile’s half-invented story of meeting me in the summer and decided to seek me out. There was no other reason for her presence.

She pulled her hand from my grasp, and then surprised me by running one finger along my jaw, the familiarity of the gesture unnerving. “Do you always run so hot?”

“It’s in the blood,” I replied. “We Montignys have our curses, but clammy feet isn’t one of them.”

One tawny eyebrow rose. “I suppose that has its advantages on a cold winter’s night.”

The room burst into whistles and catcalls. I coughed, reaching blindly behind me for my drink, nearly knocking it over in the process. Genevieve laughed, the sound loud and clear as a clarion bell, and every man in the room echoed her as though on cue. My ears buzzed and my spine crawled with discomfort, which I hid behind my glass as I downed my brandy in a long gulp. Any doubt that Genevieve possessed a witch’s powers vanished from my mind, but I remained uncertain of whether she was aware. Cécile had used magic unknowingly, and her mother might well be doing the same.