Cricket rubbed her gently on the back.
“It’ll be okay,” she said, mistaking Anouk’s reaction. “I’ve got my knives too. And Beau can fight, and—”
“Hang on,” Beau interjected. “Me? Fight?”
“You train with Viggo all the time.”
“Yeah, as his punching bag.”
Cricket dismissed this with a wave. “You know how to fight, even if you’re usually on the receiving end. This might be your chance to actually throw the punches.”
“Let’s hope not,” Beau said. “Let’s hope rumors are just rumors, and when we get to Montélimar we won’t need knives or fists or anything else that could get us killed.”
Anouk sat up. Cricket squeezed her shoulder in reassurance and then started going through the blades she had hidden in the folds of her clothing, testing the sharpness of each one. On the dashboard, the black-cat clock kept ticking, the tail moving in quick little stabs. Anouk hoped she’d done the right thing in convincing them to come.
Why hadn’t Luc told her about trying to contact Mada Zola? Anouk wasn’t used to having to guess his logic—?she’d always simply trusted him and he’d never let her down. Even Cricket, normally so bold, was chewing her gum anxiously. Luc and Cricket had been around longer than Anouk and Beau and Hunter Black, and from what Anouk had gathered, Mada Vittora had been especially severe with them. She’d let thirteen-year-old Viggo use Cricket as a guinea pig during his phase experimenting with mild poisons until Luc volunteered to take her place. And she’d done worse things. No one ever spoke of it outright, but she’d heard rumors about Mada Vittora long ago forcing Luc into dark tasks that had nothing to do with gardening: late-night massages, having him bring her midnight drinks in bed and not letting him leave until morning. Tasks that she hadn’t tried forcing on any of the others—?Luc had taken the brunt of the abuse to spare the rest of them.
“We need to stop for gas,” Beau said somewhere near Lyon, breaking the silence.
Cricket grabbed a folded map from the seat pocket and wrestled it into submission, then traced her finger along an autoroute. “There’s a village called Saint-Désirat ahead. It’s tiny. Too small for any scrying crows, you think?”
“I hope,” Beau mumbled. “I don’t feel like having my eyes plucked out today.”
Someone’s stomach growled. Someone else’s answered.
“Maybe there will be a café too,” Cricket continued. “I mean, we can’t very well show up at Mada Zola’s asking for her to save our lives and cook us lunch.”
They followed signs to a single-lane road that wound in lazy switchbacks up a hill, past small cottages and vineyards. The narrow road changed to cobblestone as it took them to a mismatch of clustered buildings perched close together. A young man swept the steps of a whitewashed building whose sign indicated it was a café.
Beau pulled up to a gas station and checked the sky. “It looks clear. Go on to the café and order. Anouk, you’ll be safe with Cricket. I’ll get the gas and meet you there. Keep your eyes open. If anything looks off, leave your pastries and run for the car.”
“Hey, now, no one’s desperate enough to abandon pastries,” Cricket said. “Not yet.”
Anouk climbed out, thrusting her hands into her jacket pockets. Her fingers worked anxiously at the mint. Were those two women with a stroller staring at her? Had she missed a spot of blood on her skin? She couldn’t shake the feeling that the Pretties sensed the three of them didn’t belong.
Cricket slid on sunglasses and glanced at Anouk. “Got any cash?”
Anouk shook her head.
“No problem. I got this.”
It was a narrow sidewalk, and Cricket swerved to avoid a parking meter, bumping into one of the mothers with a stroller. She made a quick apology and walked faster. Once they were a block away, she pulled the woman’s wallet from inside her jacket, took out a handful of cash, then dumped the empty wallet in a potted bush as they walked up to the café.
Cricket grabbed a couple of menus and they picked a table on the patio half hidden by wisteria vines. Cricket snapped her fingers at the waiter, a young man with gold eyeliner and a broken-heart tattoo on the back of his hand—?another Pretty taken with Goblin fashion. “Beignets for me, and coffee for both of us. Anouk?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m not sure I can eat.”
A crow landed on the patio railing. Small. Inquisitive. Just a regular crow. But on instinct, Anouk cringed, and at the same time, the oddly dressed waiter flung a plate at it with such unexpected vehemence that she gave him a closer look, perplexed. The plate shattered in the bushes and the crow took flight. The waiter straightened his bow tie and offered no explanation.
Beau appeared on the patio, wiping his hands on his pants, and slid into the seat next to Anouk.
The waiter smiled. “Monsieur?”
“A crepe. Wait, make it two. Three. Okay, four.”
“You should order something too, Anouk,” Cricket insisted. “Hell, order everything. We might as well enjoy what we can while we can.”
“Don’t be bleak,” Beau said. “I’m sure everything will be fine.” He gave Anouk’s hand a reassuring squeeze, but she didn’t feel reassured. She took her hand back and reached for a napkin.