Gardenia. Rosewater. Lavender.
She kicked over the lavender bottle, letting it clatter to the floor. She never wanted to smell lavender again as long as she lived. She chose another, and the scent of gardenia filled the room as she leaned back in the tub, sinking deep until the water tickled her chin.
The dog lay down next to the bathtub, resting its head on its paws.
She closed her eyes and sank even lower, holding her breath, letting the water cover her head. She felt her hair fan out around her like a mermaid’s. Like a selka’s. What was she going to do now? She didn’t even know if Hunter Black was alive. Cricket and Luc were imprisoned by Rennar. He’d take them back to Castle Ides and lock them in those awful cages. He had to know that she’d come for them. They were literally bait.
Would his offer still stand?
If she climbed out of this bath, dressed in Mada Vittora’s finest black suit, took a car across town, and rode the elevator up to the penthouse of Castle Ides, would he still agree to the trade he had promised—?that if she was his bride, he’d turn her friends back into humans?
It was an intriguing offer. It was also her only offer.
And yet she could imagine, like the winding tunnels of the catacombs, where that path would lead. He’d uphold his promise and turn them human—?but at a heavy cost. His little monsters. And she would share his table, have a throne by his side, a place in his bed. Bound to him eternally. Princess of a kingdom she loathed.
Underwater, she blew out her breath in a flurry of bubbles, eyes squeezed shut.
The smell of gardenia permeated the water, smoothing over her skin, weaving into her hair. It made her think of Luc and his herbs. There was a lot of life-essence up there in the attic, all of it perfectly cataloged. Even more than in Mada Zola’s storeroom. Even more than she’d seen in Castle Ides.
She sat up abruptly, water streaming down her face.
The dog gave her a curious look.
The Faustine jacket lay by the edge of the tub, and she grabbed it and rubbed the fabric between her fingers.
Every witch had two things: a moniker and an oubliette.
She reached into the jacket pockets where she’d stored so many treasures. The coin. The knife. The clock. With the right spell, could these pockets fill the role of an oubliette?
She knew a little of how witches became witches. They started as Pretty girls, as humans, just like her—?more or less. There were training academies deep in the Bavarian forests where the girls learned through trials how to call forth and command magic. The girls who sur
vived the initiation ceased to be Pretties and became witches. Capable of performing any spell, even the most complex one she knew of: the beastie spell.
Her fingers curled around the edges of the tub.
She wouldn’t stay in the townhouse and drink champagne and sleep in a big bed, not as long as her friends were in cages.
But maybe she wouldn’t go to Castle Ides, either.
Maybe—though it was such a dangerous idea, she only dared to whisper it to herself—she would go to a castle in the woods, a place of snow and smoke, a house of girls who all wanted the same thing she wanted and who would kill to get it, and maybe she’d kill too if she had to, and she’d return and find her friends and she’d turn them human again with her own voice.
She leaned over the edge of the tub, looked down at the dog. “Little Beau,” she said, toes splashing in the bathwater. “Can I tell you a secret?”
But the words hung unspoken on her lips. She didn’t dare even tell the dog. Witches were the enemy. How could she consider becoming the enemy? Cricket—if Cricket were still herself—would kill her for even thinking it.
She sank into the water one more time, submerged in gardenia and bath salts. Once an owl. A maid. A servant. A little dust mop. But maybe she could be more.
She had the jacket, an oubliette.
Now she just needed a moniker.
Mada Vittora had been the Diamond Witch.
Mada Zola, the Lavender Witch.
But she was something with talons and wings and magic, something both beautiful and ugly, something gifted and cursed.
“Anouk,” she whispered in silent bubbles beneath the perfumed water, a whisper just for her, full of great danger and even greater hope. “The Gargoyle Witch.”