She watched the flame steadily, thought about the light going out, and it spurred a warmth in her body. Her pulse increased. The words took shape in her mouth . . .
“Dreflamos.” She murmured so softly that the others leaned forward, uncertain she’d spoken at all.
The flame flickered—?just for a second—?and then strengthened again.
“See?” Cricket cried. “It worked! Well, sort of.”
Beau raised a doubtful eyebrow. “The window is open, you know.”
“Breeze or not, it doesn’t matter,” Anouk interjected. “It wouldn’t have truly worked unless I’d consumed some life-essence.”
Cricket blew out the candle and dropped it back in the drawer. Her gaze was both defiant and hopeful at the same time. “I’m not saying I’m the next great Witch of Paris, or that you are, or any of us. I’m just saying that it’s been on my mind.” She jerked her head toward the window. “As much as we look like the Pretties out there, we aren’t them. We’ve more in common with the Goblins. We were born of magic too, weren’t we? Just like the rest of the Haute? So why shouldn’t we be able to cast a whisper? Why shouldn’t we learn to give those Royals and witches a taste of their own medicine, cut off their toes, burn off their fingerprints?”
“It’s dangerous. The vitae echo . . .”
Cricket paced, stretching and flexing her long fingers. “I know the limits of the Haute. But imagine if we could do even a fraction of what they can. We could stop them from keeping all of us under their thumbs. You’ve spent more time with Mada Vittora than the rest of us combined, Anouk. You know all her tricks and whispers. If you could work them, you’d be as strong as any witch. No one would ever enslave you again. Or any of us.”
Anouk looked down at her hands. Torn, broken nails. Short fingers that didn’t look suited to do anything but hold a mop.
“If that was true,” Beau said, “then it would mean Mada Vittora had been lying to us our whole lives.”
Cricket gave him a hard look. “Sounds like her, doesn’t it?”
Beau conceded that with a nod.
Anouk kept her eyes on the snaking smoke that, even with the candle put away, didn’t quite dissipate. “So what do we do?”
Cricket grabbed her keys and a wad of crumpled bills from a jar on the desk. She pulled on her jacket. Shoved a stick of gum in her mouth.
“We get the hell out of Paris.” She took a knife from the kitchen and wrapped the blade in a towel. She held it out to Anouk. “Take this. I’ve seen you in the kitchen—?your skills would give even Hunter Black pause, never mind that the only things you’ve ever stabbed are vegetables.”
Hesitantly, Anouk took it. It was a chef’s knife, heavy and solid. The wooden handle nestled in her palm as though it had been molded to fit there. She wrapped her fingers around it and wondered, with a sudden lurch of her pulse, if slicing flesh felt like piercing an eggplant.
Cricket grunted her approval. “Now let’s go find someone who will tell us the truth.”
“Where?” Beau asked.
Anouk spoke first, surprising all of them. “Montélimar.”
Chapter 11
Both Cricket and Beau were very silent, until Cricket leaned over the sink and spat out her gum. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But have you gone insane?”
“Montélimar is where the Lavender Witch lives,” Beau said. “Mada Zola.”
Anouk thrust her hand in her jacket pocket, rolled the rough sprig of mint between her fingers. “I know.”
“Mada. Zola. Is. Our. Enemy,” Cricket enunciated as though Anouk had suddenly gone deaf. “Mada Vittora hated her, and the feeling was mutual. Because of their feud, Zola lost all her holdings in central France. She’s banished out there to her wilted garden, left to rot like a sack of winter potatoes. Forbidden to have anything to do with the Haute.” She reached for another stick of gum as though she needed something to calm her nerves.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Anouk argued. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? If we can convince the Lavender Witch that we served Vittora only because we were enchanted, she might help us.”
Neither Cricket nor Beau appeared convinced.
Anouk rested her hands on the table. “Before Luc disappeared, he started spending more time on the scryboard. Yesterday afternoon, I went through his log. He’d been spying on Mada Zola. Even contacted her for help, though it didn’t look as though he ever got a response.”
Beau raised his eyebrows. “Did Mada Vittora know about this?”
Anouk shook her head.