My eyes went to the puddle of blood left behind by Lachance’s corpse and then to the illusion of a wall, behind which the real Aiden sat slumped. No part of me believed Marie’s actions were driven by a desire to see me triumph – they’d been to save her son. To give him a chance at a future. And I’d do well to remember that.

“Send guards to find Cécile and Sabine,” I said. “Make sure they are safe.”

Cécile was at the far end of the castle, my sense of her faded, as though she were sleeping. Which was just as well – she needed the rest. But given the ruthlessness Marie had just displayed, I needed Cécile aware of the danger she was in. Marie alone knew her importance, and I would not put it past her to use Cécile against me.

I twitched, feeling something slam against the magic of the dome with enough force that I knew it had been no human. But before I could raise the alarm, I felt another series of thuds. A pattern. One I hadn’t heard since the days when I held secret meetings in the Dregs.

“Do you know where she is?” Fred’s voice pulled me back to the council chambers, and I focused on Cécile.

“Far end of the castle,” I said, then hesitated. She seemed further than that, if not by much. Which if she was sleeping, made no sense at all. “Something’s not right.” I said, then a wave of dizziness sent me staggering. A sudden wakefulness accompanied by pain and panic.

“Stones and sky, Cécile,” I swore, righting myself. “What have you done?”

Chapter Seven

Cécile

Roland sat straight-backed in a chair before an easel in Angoulême’s parlor. His brow was softer than usual, cheeks rounded with a smile as he dipped a brush in a dollop of crimson paint and began adding deft little touches to the piece. He was strikingly talented, his subject represented in exquisite detail. Unfortunately.

“Macabre,” the Queen murmured over my shoulder. “But the boy is naught but a tool in your enemy’s arsenal.” The view shifted, Roland relegated to the periphery in favor of Angoulême and Lessa, who stood bent over a map covered in what appeared to be golden Guerre pieces. He was dressed as was his custom, but she wore what I could only describe as armor: dull black leather reinforced with crimson scales. A sword hung at her side and she awkwardly touched the pommel from time to time in a way Anaïs never would’ve. How Angoulême had not recognized she was an impostor was beyond me.