“The fruits of your intelligence.” My father tossed a small packet in the center of my plate, the cream sauce from dinner soaking into the paper.

It had been a handful of days since I’d told him that Marc was bringing in something illicit via the human traders, and my guilt over having betrayed his trust had grown steadily throughout. I’d tried to tell myself that I’d been doing the right thing. That Tristan was my father’s target, not Marc. That my success would benefit my sister. But no amount of rationalization had alleviated my feeling that what I was doing was wrong.

Trying to keep my heartbeat in check, I used my fork to flip through the contents, which were pictorial in nature, with only a limited amount of text. The print quality was poor, each page marked with identical streaks and flaws. The difference between using machinery and magic, and one reason why the Guild held their monopoly so easily. Only that which they’d refuse to print would ever be sourced outside of Trollus, which explained these. Inappropriate as they were, though, they were hardly treasonous. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. “What the artist lacks in talent, he makes up for in creativity.”

“How do you know it’s a man?”

“It’s obvious.” Leaning back in my chair, I gestured at a servant to take away both plate and pamphlet. “I can only tell you what I learn, Father. I can’t make it useful. Not that this isn’t, in a way. It proves contraband can be brought in and out of Trollus.”

“I already knew that.” He circled the table to sit across from me. “Proof would be catching one of the traders with propaganda, not indecent representations of the Regent of Trianon commissioned by those idiots you call friends.”

Propaganda? I frowned, uncertain why he believed the traders would be caught with that, then shook my head. “This was for the twins?”

“They picked them up from the market. When they were searched, they claimed the work was to broaden the horizons of the more prudish citizens of Trollus, though no doubt it will form part of some larger prank.”

Vincent and Victoria’s pranks were frequent and memorable, but this wasn’t their style. Not in the slightest. “No doubt the end results will be quite amusing.”

He said nothing. Did not so much as blink. But the doors to the room began to shut. Slowly. One by one. Each individual lock falling into place under the firm hand of his magic.

“Do you think this is good enough, darling?” He rested his cane across the flat plane of the table.

My stomach hollowed, and it took every ounce of willpower in my possession not to shrink back in my chair. “There’s nothing else to tell. Maybe you’re wrong to suspect them.”

“I am not wrong!” He was across the table, screaming the words in my face. I scrambled back, tripping over my chair and falling in a heap.

“Temper, temper, Father.”

Anaïs’s voice wafted over me, then her hands were under my arms, lifting me onto my feet. “We’ve discussed how I feel about you threatening my sister.”

I backed against the wall, unsure whether I should flee or remain where I was.

“Her efforts are inadequate.” He settled down into his chair. “As are yours, frankly.”

Anaïs sniffed. “So you say, and yet every day Tristan spends more hours in my company, bending my ear with his desires and grievances.”

“He is supposed to be spending hours in your bed, but you haven’t managed that much, have you?”

“Patience.” Anaïs righted my chair, then sat, carefully arranging her skirts. “Tristan is observant, particularly when it comes to changes in character or behavior. If I throw myself at his feet, he will question why. He will mistrust me. Better to have him believe he is the seducer than the other way around.”

“I’m beginning to believe that your request for my patience is nothing more than a way to deflect from your failure to deliver.”

Anaïs shrugged. “Believe what you will.”

I was equal parts amazed and envious of her flippancy. Of her ability to brush off my father’s questions with no fear of retribution.

“As it stands, I do have something for you.” She picked up my glass of wine and drank deeply. “He intends to question the practice of sending half-blood miners into the labyrinth for missed quotas at the King’s public audience tomorrow.”

“Question how?”

“He wants the practice ended. For the half-bloods to be punished in ways that aren’t fatal.”

My father’s eyebrows shot up. As did mine. Such a move was entirely out of character for Tristan, and unease bit at my insides, along with the sense that I was missing something. Something important.

“I’m always pleased to prove my worth, Father.” Anaïs rose to her feet. “But now, I’m off to bed. He wants me there tomorrow, and the King insists on holding his audiences so painfully early. Come, Pénélope. You look as though you could use some rest.”

I let her take my arm, but it felt as though I held onto a stranger.

Once we were out of earshot, she asked, “Did he hurt you?” Her voice was anxious.

“No.”

Anaïs gave a long exhale. “Thank the stars and fates I came home when I did.”

“Indeed.”

“You have to do better, Penny,” she said. “You have to at least appear as though you’re trying to seduce Marc, not like you’re avoiding him. He’s going to be at the audience tomorrow – you should seek him out.”

We reached the door to my chambers, and she turned into me, pulling me close, resting her forehead against mine as she had when we were younger. “I know this is hard, but for now, it’s the only way.”

I did not return her embrace, only stood frozen in her grip. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, he’ll–”

“No,” I interrupted. “Why did you tell Father that Tristan was going to try to get the law changed?”

“It’s information everyone will know by tomorrow,” she said.

“That’s not the point,” I exclaimed, pushing her away. “If the law had been changed, think of how many lives could’ve been saved. But now Father will go to the public audience tomorrow, and you know he’ll argue against it.”

“Penny–”

“I thought you were better than that,” I said. Wasn’t that half the reason I was doing this? To pull Tristan from the throne and put Anaïs on it in his place because she’d be an improvement? Or had I been wrong to believe that? “Don’t you care about making Trollus better at all?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

I glared at her. “If you were Queen, you’d have a chance to undo laws like these. A chance to improve circumstances for the half-bloods – to allow them lives worth living. Haven’t you ever thought of that?”

“I’m not a sympathizer,” she blurted out. “What exactly do you expect from me?”

So much more.

“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re cut from the same cloth as Father,” I spat. “Self-interested to the core, no matter what it costs everyone else.”

A flash of something crossed over her eyes. “Penny, that’s not… I…”

She couldn’t even say it. Couldn’t even deny that it was true.

“I care about you,” she finished weakly. “You know I love you.”

“I do,” I said. “But between you, Grandmother, and Father, I’m not sure what love means. If it means anything at all.”

---

I purposefully left early for the palace to avoid having to walk with my family, entering with the crowds of commoners and half-bloods who’d queued to ensure they secured a place in the throne room. Public audiences with His Majesty often grew quite raucous – a form of entertainment for those who could afford no other.

Making my way into the enormous room, I wove my way to the front where the aristocrats had their places, searching for Marc’s tall form. He stood next to his father, their heads bent in conversation, which they broke off at my approach.

“Pénélope? I… What are you doing here?”

I couldn’t see Marc’s face, but there was no missing his anxiety as his head whipped back and forth between me and his father, confirming my suspicion that he had no desire for his family to know we’d been spending time alone together. Which wasn’t unexpected, but it stung, nevertheless.

“My lord,” I said, bobbing a slight curtsey for the Comte, who inclined his head, brow creasing with a frown. “I came because I heard I might find you here. I’m sorry about how we left things when last we spoke.”

Marc’s father’s frown deepened, but he only said, “If you’ll excuse me,” then walked in the direction of the throne.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Marc glanced over my head at the door to the room, then back to me, then away again.

“Do you come to these audiences often?” I asked, desperate to diffuse the tension, but at a loss of what to say.

“No,” he said, then, “Well, more so now. Because…” He trailed off.

“To learn?” I supplied.

“Right. And today… Well, today, Tristan has something to raise with his father, which is why I’m here.”

“Anaïs mentioned as much.” I watched him carefully to see how he’d react to the revelation, but he only nodded, seemingly unsurprised.

“There’s your family now.”

I wasn’t tall enough to see either my sister or my father, but there was no mistaking how the crowds parted for them in a way they hadn’t for me. They took their places near the front right as the herald blasted, “Make way for the King!”

The crowd dropped into bows and curtsies almost in unison, no one moving until Thibault had strode down the center aisle and settled on the throne, the gold of his crown glinting. But of Tristan, there was no sign.

A row of petitioners formed, which Thibault eyed for a long moment before gesturing for the first pair to speak. It was a grievance between two merchantmen, and I swiftly tuned them out.

“That will be you one day,” I whispered, watching the King confer with Marc’s father. “You and Tristan, deciding everyone’s fate.”

Marc made a soft sound of amusement. “You make it sound far more exciting than it is. Last week, two petitioners argued for an hour over who had proprietary right to a cake recipe.”

I bit down on my laughter.

“Besides, there are other things I’d rather be doing with my time.”

A thrill ran through me. “Such as?”

Before he could answer, one of the petitioners began to wave his hands angrily at the other, and the crowd pressed in for a better view, driving me against Marc.

Like every other aristocrat present, we were both shielded to maintain our personal space. But as our magics brushed together, they sparked like an electric charge, causing several of those around us to frown before returning their attentions to the proceedings. I should have moved, eased aside to give more space, but instead, I held my ground, the feel of my magic pressed up against his eerily similar to the sensation of naked flesh pressed against naked flesh. I waited for Marc to shift away, for the contact to break, but he stood unmoving.

It’s because there isn’t any space to move, I told myself. He doesn’t want to jostle the elderly baroness next to him.

A million other reasons danced through my head, but always I circled back to one: that he wanted to be near me. Because it seemed impossible that I should feel like I stood in the middle of a storm of lightning and that he felt nothing. Impossible that my skin should burn hot and cold, the lights around me seeming to expand and contract with every thud of my heart, and that Marc would be unaffected.

Remember why you’re here, I told myself, but the tumult of emotion coursing through me drowned all logic. All rational thought.

The words of the King, of the petitioners, faded into a dull drone, my ears fixed on the beat of Marc’s heart. A thud thud that seemed faster than circumstances warranted.

You’re imagining things.

The sound of his breathing, which I swore had a ragged edge to it.

Wishful thinking.

But the naysayer in my thoughts did nothing to curb the throb of my own pulse, which seemed to grow more violent and chaotic with each inhale. Each exhale.

Whose magic changed first, I couldn’t have said, but I felt the nature of mine shift and alter to reflect my will, no longer a barrier, but a liquid flow swirling across my skin. Marc’s power poured into it like hot water added to a cooling bath, but infinitely more personal. Like will and thought and desire made tangible.

I bit my lip, terrified that everyone around us knew what we were doing, while at the same time not caring if they did. The world was a blur of light and color and sound, and as I let my eyelids drift shut, I imagined that when I opened them, we would be alone. That he would touch me.

And then he did.

Barely the faintest brush of his fingertips against my skin, but a spark seemed to run all the way through me and down to my toes. I gasped out a breath, then clenched my teeth, certain someone must have noticed, but no one stirred. Including Marc. He remained facing the front of the throne room, but his fingers trailed slowly up my wrist as though following the path of my rapidly pulsing blood, which grew hot beneath his touch. They traced back down again, brushing against my palm, and my hand instinctively linked with his.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But doing so seemed impossible with the soft ache growing in my belly, my skin so sensitive it felt nearly raw, my toes curling in the confines of my shoes. I wanted to drag him away, to find some empty corner of the palace where we could–

The doors to the throne room opened and a curling roil of power washed over the crowd. Marc dropped my hand like he’d been burned, turning with everyone else to watch Tristan stroll up the main aisle to take a place at the rear of the line of petitioners.

Immediately they began to fall over themselves to get out of his way, mutters of “Please go ahead, Your Highness,” reaching my ears even from a distance, and Tristan’s affable declarations of “You are too kind” loud enough to disturb whatever the King was saying to the current petitioner. The commoner in question turned round to find himself face to face with the crown prince, squeaked, “It’s really not important, Your Majesty,” then all but bolted to the rear of the crowd.

“Tristan.” The King shifted on the throne, his mouth drawing into a thin line.

“Father.” Tristan bowed low. “Your Majesty, that is. I suppose, given the circumstances, we ought to be formal.”

“Get on with it.”

Seemingly nonplussed by the King’s sour tone, Tristan nodded. “Of course. Your time is a valuable commodity, Father. Coincidentally, it is valuable commodities which I’d like to discuss. Namely, I wish to petition the crown – you, that is – that the practice of sending miners to the labyrinth for missed quotas be replaced with a punishment that is somewhat less… fatal.”

The effect of his words rippled through the crowd like a tide, exclamations of surprise quickly shifting to whispered conversation as aristocrats and commoners alike fell into groups of their peers, speculating over Tristan’s motivations for such an enormous request. I glanced up at Marc to see his reaction, but he only watched his cousin intently.

“It’s a practice that has long proven an effective means of maintaining production,” the King said. “I see no–”

“Just because it’s an old practice doesn’t make it any less ill-considered,” Tristan interrupted, causing the collective to stir uneasily, everyone wisely concerned about being caught in the crossfire between the two powers. “It’s bad economics.”

“By all means,” the King replied. “Please enlighten me.”

“I will!” Tristan smiled and extracted a piece of parchment from the inner pocket of his coat. “In the last year, one hundred eighty-three miners have been sentenced to the labyrinth for missed quotas. That’s one hundred eighty-three miners who could’ve been punished in some other form – longer hours or perhaps a whipping or lost finger – then continued to work. Instead, they were killed, leaving their gangs short of members until the Guild arranged for the purchase of replacements.”

“The cost of replacing them is negligible.”

“True!” Tristan looked up from his paper. “Most are only of middling power, and the job requires little intelligence or training, meaning the Guild can purchase the half-bloods they need at marginal expense. However, the number that is compelling is the opportunity cost of losing those miners. Imagine, for a moment, that we kept them alive and working, while maintaining the current rate of additions to the labor force.”

“They do need to be fed.”

Tristan waved a dismissive hand. “Not much, and I’m sure we could find places to cut that particular expense.” He glanced at the page. “In the past year, the gross weight of bullion pulled from the ground was approximately–”

The numbers he rattled off made even my jaw drop. The effect on the masses was far greater. As was the number Tristan announced could be earned if his changes were put into effect.

“Even if one factors in a slight reduction in production due to reduced incentive to meet quota, it still makes good economic sense.”

“Interesting,” the King said, and I held my breath along with everyone else as he silently deliberated.

“Your Majesty, if I might interject.” My father’s voice pierced the silence. “There are additional consequences to His Highness’s proposal that he might not have considered.”

Tristan’s expression soured, but the King waggled his fingers at my father to continue.

“The Miners’ Guild is not the only group who uses the labyrinth to dispose of undesirable property,” my father said. “Only the most consistent user of the resource. Yet if you were to eliminate the practice for them, how long until those with more… liberal sympathies eliminated the avenue for the other groups.”

“I did not realize good economics were the sole domain of the liberal-minded,” Tristan snapped. “The same principles apply for the other guilds, as they do for private owners. Sell your undesirables if you no longer wish to retain them.”

My father grimaced. “Good in theory, Your Highness. But how long until the markets are flooded with inferior half-bloods with poor skills and work ethic. Who will buy them? The answer is either the crown–” he gestured at the King “–or the guilds and private owners will be forced to keep them and shoulder the burden of feeding and clothing them for the rest of their lives. Worse yet, it will create legions of malcontents of the belief that they can escape the labor that is their due through poor performance.”

“What say you, Tristan?” the King asked. “His Grace makes a compelling argument. As usual.”

There was no mistaking that Tristan wanted to argue. The muscles of his jaw flexed and the press of power he was exuding made more than a few trolls step back. I glanced at Marc out of the corner of my eye to see how he reacted, but he showed no sign of concern, his shoulders relaxed.

“Tristan?”

The crown prince scowled, then gave the slightest shake of his head. “The numbers speak for themselves, but it appears His Grace has given the social and political ramifications a great deal of thought and consideration, and I find myself in no position to argue his points.”

In no position, but not unable. Pursing my lips, I picked through Tristan’s words, seeing the way he manipulated the truth. But to what end? There was something off about this exchange. Something… scripted.

“The law stands.” The King stood up, through with audiences for the day, and strode between Tristan and the Duke without acknowledging either.

The crowd dispersed, but it was flush with heated conversation over what had been said. Marc offered me his arm, leading me over to where Tristan stood with Anaïs, my father having already left the throne room.

“Stones and sky, but your father drives me to the brink,” Tristan said loudly, crossing his arms. “Must he argue with everything I say?”

Except my father almost never came to these audiences – they were for commoners and the lower levels of the nobility. The only reason he was here was because my sister had given him reason to be.

“He argues with everyone,” Anaïs replied. “Let’s go. I’m hungry and I fancy a float on the lake.”

Marc and I followed them out, exiting the palace gates just as a gust of wind blasted through the city, carrying with it countless sheets of paper. Half-bloods and full-bloods alike snatched them from the air or picked them up off the ground, and without thinking, I did the same.

---

Those who claim to be our leaders are no more than VILLAINS and OPPRESSORS more concerned with sating their own GREED and DESIRES than with the welfare of the citizens they claim to serve. Rise up and FIGHT those who would deny our right to LIBERTY and FREEDOM. Rise up and FIGHT those who would rather send us to our DEATHS than pay a FAIR WAGE. Rise up and FIGHT those who care more for PROFIT and POWER than DECENCY and EQUALITY. Rise up…

---

The piece of propaganda went on from there in the way of all polemic – words chosen to inspire and incite the populace against the King and the rest of the aristocracy. The populace which, at this very moment, were all staring at us with hate in their eyes. But I barely noticed, my gaze fixed on the page. On the ink. On the streaks marring the quality of the reproduction.

Lifting my head, I saw my father standing motionless, reading the piece. Then he reached into his pocket, extracting a stained packet of papers, eyes shifting between them.

“Bloody stones and sky, Marc,” Tristan snarled, staring at the sheet of paper in his hand. “How does this continue to find its way into Trollus?” Then his magic surged, his voice amplified over the crowd, mocking and cruel. “Rise up? Oh, by all means. Rise up against those who hold all that rock–” he gestured upward “–off your heads and see just how well that goes for you.” Then he stormed off through the crowd, Anaïs hot on his heels.

“I’m sorry, but I need to go after him,” Marc said.

“Of course,” I said, smoothing the page out in my hands, a dull roar filling my ears, the troll lights of those around me suddenly seeming too bright as understanding dawned upon me.

As he walked away, I couldn’t help but regard him in a whole new light. Because the page I held, and all those floating through Trollus to fuel the fires of revolution: they’d been printed on the exact same press as the twins’ comics, which my heart told me was no coincidence.

My friends were sympathizers.

And I’d just given proof of it to my father.