It was too much.
Something snapped inside me. Something permanent. In that second, I was no longer the Chasseur—if I’d ever been a Chasseur in the first place.
Unsheathing my Balisarda, I watched with vindictive pleasure as the others eyed me. Wary. Afraid. The harpist in the corner stopped playing. She stared blankly at the floor, her mouth gaping open. The silence grew eerie—waiting.
“Sit,” I said softly, flicking my gaze to Madame Labelle and Coco. When neither of them moved, I took a step closer. Beau’s hand closed around Coco’s wrist. He tugged her down beside him.
But Madame Labelle remained standing. I turned my dagger to her. “Lou is gone.” I moved the blade—slowly, pointedly—from her face to the empty chair. “Morgane le Blanc took her. Why?”
Her eyes narrowed, flicking to the misshapen black symbols on the table. “If Morgane has indeed taken her—”
“Why?”
I inched the blade closer to her nose, and she frowned. “Please, Captain, this is no way to behave. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
Reluctantly, I lowered the knife as she dropped to a chair. My blood grew hotter with each tic of my jaw.
“Such an unfortunate turn of events.” She glared up at me, smoothing her skirt in agitation. “I assume the witches revealed your wife’s true identity. Louise le Blanc. The only child of La Dame des Sorcières.”
I nodded stiffly.
Ansel cleared his throat before Madame Labelle could continue. “Begging your pardon, madame, but why have we never heard of Louise le Blanc before now?”
She cast him an appraising look. “Dear boy, Louise was Morgane’s most jealously guarded secret. Even some of the witches didn’t know of her existence.”
“Then how did you?” Coco countered.
“I have many spies at the Chateau.”
“You aren’t welcome there yourself?”
“I’m as welcome there as you are, my dear.”
“Why?” I asked.
She ignored me. Her gaze fell instead to Beau. “What do you know of your father, Your Highness?”
He leaned back and arched a dark brow. Thus far, he’d observed the proceedings with cool detachment, but Madame Labelle’s question seemed to catch him by surprise. “The same as everyone else, I suppose.”
“Which is?”
He shrugged. Rolled his eyes. “He’s a notorious whoremonger. Despises his wife. Funds the toe-rag Archbishop’s crusade against these magnificent creatures.” He stroked Coco’s spine appreciatively. “He’s devilishly handsome, shit at politics, and a piss poor father. Should I go on . . . ? I fail to see how any of this is relevant.”
“You would do well not to speak of him so.” Her lips pursed angrily. “He’s your father—and a good man.”
Beau snorted. “You’re certainly the first to think so.”
She sniffed and smoothed her skirts again. Obviously still displeased. “It hardly matters. This is bigger than your father—though it will certainly end with him, if Morgane has her way.”
“Explain,” I growled.
She shot me an irritated look, but continued anyway. “This war is hundreds of years in the making. It’s older than all of you. Older than me. Older than even Morgane. It started with a witch named Angelica and a holy man named Constantin.”
A holy man named Constantin. She couldn’t mean the man who’d forged the Sword of Balisarda. The saint.
“Lou told me this story!” Coco leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Angelica fell in love with him, but he died, and her tears made L’Eau Mélancolique.”
“Half right, I’m afraid. Shall I tell you the true tale?” She paused, glancing up at me. Expectant. “I assure you we have time.”
With a growl of impatience, I sat. “You have two minutes.”
Madame Labelle nodded approvingly. “It’s not a very pretty story. Angelica did indeed fall in love with Constantin—a knight from a neighboring land—but she dared not tell him what she was. Her people lived in harmony with his, and she did not wish to upset the delicate balance between kingdoms. As so often happens, however, she soon longed for him to know her entirely. She told him of her people’s magic, of their connection with the land, and at first, Constantin and his kingdom accepted her. They cherished her and her people—Les Dames Blanches, they called them. The White Ladies. Pure and bright. And as the purest and brightest of all, Angelica became the first Dame des Sorcières.”