Shifting on my stool, I examined the canvas with a critical eye before reaching for my box of pigments to mix a paint the exact shade of blue of the sapphire earrings Marc’s mother had habitually worn. The very same pair that were now sitting on a piece of black velvet on the table to my left.

It needed to be perfect.

The Comtesse, seated at her piano, while the Comte looked on, entranced and deeply in love with his talented wife. It was so clear in my mind’s eye: a scene I’d seen often during my time in their home; but while replicating the image was no challenge, capturing the depth of the sentiment between the pair had thus far eluded me. And without it, the piece was worthless.

And I needed it to be perfect.

It had been two weeks since the pair had died. Two weeks since a blast of magic had torn apart a tavern in the Dregs, killing several half-bloods and leaving my father and his followers standing in a ruin of stone, Marc’s father dead at their feet. The King had questioned my father hard, but all he’d been able to accuse the Comte of was meeting with a group of half-bloods, which was no crime. Those half-bloods who hadn’t been killed had somehow managed to escape and, of course, none had come forward to explain the nature of the meeting.

Still, rumors had swirled that the Comte had been the leader of the sympathizer revolution and had sacrificed his life to protect the cause. But there was no proof, and as the days passed, the chatter and speculation diminished, the King seeming content to let the matter rest.

Marc had told me little about what had happened, and I hadn’t pressed him for the details, his haunted expression and sleepless nights telling me all I needed to know. His father had known what he and Tristan had been up to, and had sacrificed himself in order to protect them.

Stretching my back, I stared up at the skylights of the solar, eyeing the sun glowing yellow and bright, warmth radiating down upon me. Not the real sun, of course, but one of Marc’s creation, wrought with magic and talent. It illuminated the dozens of plants and flowers filling the room with their natural scent and earthiness. They were all grown in hothouses in Trianon, then brought to Trollus with great difficulty, but Marc insisted upon purchasing them. It made him feel better, I thought, to surround me with life, and I absently pressed a hand against the slight curve of my stomach, the presence of magic not my own the greatest comfort of all.

A flicker of motion caught my eye, and I turned my head in time to watch a petal fall from a lily to join the others on the tabletop. Lowering my brush, I stared at the plant, and the others, all slowly dying in the darkness of Trollus, the magic required to keep them alive and thriving lost to iron and mortality.

“An expensive habit.”

My hand twitched, a drop of paint falling to stain the silk of my skirts. My father stood just inside the doorway, gloved hand curved around a dying rose bloom. Though he’d shown me nothing but kindness and courtesy since my bonding, would not, I knew, lay a hand on me given I was bonded to the King’s nephew, trepidation still prickled along my skin. Only a fool would believe he was through with me yet.

Rising to my feet, I curtseyed. “Your Grace.”

“Now, now. None of that.” Crossing the room, he took my elbow and pushed me gently down onto my stool before pulling another next to me and settling onto it, cane balanced across his knees. “Don’t strain yourself on my account, dearest.”

Leaning forward, he silently examined my canvas, a slight furrow forming in his brow. Though I’d never seen him create any art himself, he had a good eye for it, and my work had always been the lone aspect of my person for which he’d shown any paternal pride. “It’s good,” he finally said, “but…” The furrow deepened as he tried to pinpoint what was lacking in the portrait before shrugging and giving up. “It’s a shame.”

“Their deaths, you mean?” I picked at the paint stain with magic, carefully extracting tiny fragments from between the fibers of the silk.

“Hers.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, his focus still on my painting, and I took the opportunity to study him. Both Anaïs and I favored him over our mother with our high cheekbones, squared jaws, and straight noses, and I touched my bottom lip, annoyed that it possessed the same full curve as his did. The only sign of age was a touch of grey at his temples, which did nothing to mar his perfect troll beauty. It was the greatest lie, the greatest deceit. Like the bloom of a poisonous flower or the multihued bands on a venomous snake. Lovely. Deadly.

“She was extraordinarily talented,” he continued. “She caught the eye of many for that reason alone, and yet she chose him.”

“She loved him,” I said, careful to keep my emotions in check. “Besides, her death was your doing, Father.”

“I didn’t kill the Comte. He fell on his own proverbial sword and took her to the grave along with him.” Shifting on his stool, my father caught my gaze. “All that talent and grace snuffed out in an instant for love. I wonder if in those moments when her heart stuttered, but before her light went out, if she loved him still. Or if she hated him for stealing away her future.”

I did not respond. His meaning was clear enough. Hurtful enough.

“But it’s of no matter.”

I sincerely doubted that. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t a father visit his daughter to see how she fares in her new life?” He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Though I see for myself that you are faring well – far better than anyone, including me, anticipated. Married life must suit you.”

“It does.” I wanted to get up, to move. To run, even. Because all his little comments were dovetailing toward something. And that something wouldn’t be good. “Does that disappoint you?”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The truth is, Pénélope, that I came here today to tell you how very proud of you I am.”

My breath caught in my chest, all thoughts, all words, escaping me. Because the things he valued… I wanted no part of them.

“Everyone believes Anaïs is my golden child: powerful, beautiful, and ambitious. But she has not accomplished half of what you’ve done for this family. For me.”

No.

“Despite all the marks against you, here you sit: bonded to the young Comte who is nephew of the King, who is master of all that comes and goes from Trollus, who is cousin and confidant of the heir, and above all, who is the stalking horse for the true leader of the half-bloods’ revolution.”

Don’t react. Don’t say anything.

He patted my cheek. “I see you’ve finally learned to play the game, dearest. But it’s too late. His father’s sacrifice might have denied me proof, but I know Marc is heading those meetings, and I know that standing behind him in the shadows is Prince Tristan himself.”

Picking up my brush, I set to cleaning off the paint and storing my tools away. “Fascinating theories, Father. Yet for someone with such great certainty, you seem to be doing little about it.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” he said. “Because you’re going to do it for me.”

My pulse roared in my ears, my heart threatening to tear out of my chest. “And what exactly is it that you believe I’m going to do for you?”

“You’re going to kill Marc Biron, Comte de Courville, for me.”

The room faded in and out of focus, and I gripped the sides of my stool to keep from toppling over.

“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll even manage to live long enough to bring this delightful child into the world. But we all know you’ll never survive to raise it. The babe will kill you. And you, my beloved daughter, will kill him.” He cackled with undisguised mirth, and the jars of paint sitting on the table all cracked as my magic sought an outlet.

“Is that why you had the library purged?” I demanded, hoping the accusation would elicit some clue that there had been something there. Maybe not a cure, but something that would allow me to survive. Something I could hunt down now that I knew it existed. “Was there something in those pages that could help me?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, along with something else. Fear. But it was gone in an instant. “There was nothing in those books that could cure you, Pénélope. There is nothing that can save you. Do you think I didn’t look?”

And he could not lie.

My hope shattered into a million pieces, tearing through my insides on the flood of my too-fast pulse. “You can’t know that.” They were weak words. A pathetic defense. And that, more than anything he’d said, made me lunge for him, the dagger in my pocket aimed at his throat.

But magic caught me and I hung suspended in the air, thrashing and struggling, until I finally tried to throw the blade at him in desperation. It only bounced off a shield of magic, clattering to the floor.

“Pénélope, Pénélope.”

I tried to scream, praying one of the servants would come even as I hoped that they’d stay hidden, because he wouldn’t hesitate to kill them.

“You are the poisoned cup. The knife in the dark. The pillow pressed against a sleeping man’s mouth.” The room trembled with his laughter, though his gaze was cold and dead as a snake’s. “You are the trump card that no one knew I had.”

My feet touched the ground, and I caught myself against the table as my ankle rolled.

“And once Marc is dead, Tristan will have no choice but to step out of the safety of the shadows to take the reins of his little revolution, and then it’s only a matter of time until the proof of his treason is mine. Until the throne is mine and the Montigny line is no more.” Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door, cane thump thumping against the ground. “Congratulations, Pénélope. It seems you are a true Angoulême after all.”