The walk back to my home was a blur, my mind racing and sweat pooling beneath my breasts as I debated what to tell my father.

If there was anything to tell him at all.

Despite my intentions to approach the evening with a mind for discovering some small details that would appease my father, the night had gotten away from me from the first moment Marc had walked onto the bridge.

For years, I’d dreamed of being courted – to be half of one of the young couples strolling down the river pathways, hand in hand, heart racing with anticipation of a stolen kiss beneath a bridge. Imagined what I would wear and what would be said. The taste of wine and sweets on my lips, and music in my ears. But my imagination had been a pale comparison to what I’d experienced tonight.

It had seemed all the magic and brilliance and beauty of Trollus had been on display just for us, as though the city itself had known how important tonight was to me. A gift I’d wanted but never expected to receive. If there was a way I could go back and live through it over and over again, I’d do it, because I feared it was something that could never be replicated. Though perhaps that, in part, was what had made it so special.

With the exception of the end.

I’d almost kissed Marc beneath the glowing willows of the glass gardens – a moment so perfect that it was the stuff of which stories were written. Then the clocks in the palace had chimed the midnight hour, reminding me of my purpose, and the brilliance of the evening had come crashing down around me as my predicament was remembered.

It had seemed, in that heartbeat, a fell thing to allow his lips to touch mine with my motivations as murky as they were. It would be a betrayal and one, if discovered, that Marc would take harder than most. To describe him as fragile would be a fallacy, for he was not. Yet I knew better than most that his appearance made him feel unworthy of another’s desire, and if he were to learn of my father’s involvement, he’d believe every word and action on my part were motivated by self-preservation rather than a product of the sentiment in my heart. I would not do that to him.

So instead I’d ransacked the moment, asking about Tristan in a desperate attempt to redeem my purpose, rendering both of us uncomfortable and me without a damnable thing to report back to my father. And so the dream now descended into a nightmare as I walked up to the door, because there would be consequences to my failure.

There always were.

At first, the house was quiet, and I breathed a breath of hope that Anaïs was out with Tristan or the twins and my father was caught up in the salon of some other lord or lady.

Then I heard the screams.

As always, they came from deep in the lower level, a place of blackness and horror to which I never, ever ventured. Roland at play with whatever half-blood or human had been drummed up for the purpose of indulging the young prince’s violent proclivities. For appeasing him and winning him over to our side.

Our side.

I cringed, hurrying across the foyer, but before I reached the stairs, footsteps and the clack clack of my father’s cane against the marble filled my ears.

“Pénélope.”

Taking a deep breath, I turned. My father stood next to the table in the center of the room, the crystal lamp atop it casting shadows on his face as he dabbed at the droplets of scarlet splattered across his skin with a silken handkerchief. And not for the first time, I wondered how much of the horror that went on below was not for Roland’s amusement, but for my father’s.

“Did you enjoy your evening?”

My tongue felt thick in my mouth. “Yes.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He tossed the stained silk on the table. “I purchased some chocolates made by the confectioner in Trianon that you are so fond of. They are in your room.”

“Chocolates.”

He smiled. “Rest well, darling.” Then he turned and disappeared back down into the hell below.

---

I didn’t sleep a wink. It would not have been an exaggeration to say that I didn’t close my eyes longer than it took to blink, so afraid was I that my father was merely waiting for my guard to drop in order to strike and glean what information he could from my mind. But the doors to my chambers didn’t open until morning, Lessa flinging them wide, every lamp in my bedroom burning bright with her magic and leaving my eyes stinging. She had a pale pink gown draped over one arm and a cruel-looking corset in her free hand. Without a word, she tossed the garments on the bed, then went into the bathing room, a rush of steam and the sound of running water following her back out again.

“Well,” she demanded. “Are you going to get out of bed or do I have to drag you out by your heels?”

“I wasn’t aware I had any pressing engagements,” I replied acidly, pulling off my nightdress and tossing it on the floor.

“He wants you ready and out the door within the hour.”

There was only one he in this house, but I asked, “Why? Where am I going?”

Lessa shrugged, though whether it was because she was unable or unwilling to divulge any answers, I couldn’t tell.

The water was uncomfortably hot, but I refused to flinch as I stepped in, submitting to having my body scrubbed and my hair washed, Lessa using magic rather than her own hands for the task like she was supposed to. Steam rose from my hair as she dried it, looping curls forming one after another even as she deftly applied cosmetics to my face, her own remaining sour the entire time. She’d always been cool toward me, but since my affliction was revealed, she’d been outright nasty, with seemingly no fear of ramifications.

And I didn’t understand why. Of all the members of my family, I was the kindest and most sympathetic to our servants – even to her. Before, I would’ve been too nervous to call out her behavior, but now… “Why do you hate me so much?”

Her eyes focused on mine, bold and not the least bit subservient. “Because you are pathetic.”

I lifted one eyebrow. “At best, that is a trait worthy of pity; at worst, disgust; but hate seems extreme.”

She snorted, turning me and starting on the laces of the corset before saying, “In Trollus, power is supposed to be king, yet you are proof that blood is the true ruler. You are weak, in magic and in body, and yet I’m expected to kneel before you because one of my ancestors four generations past was human. Despite the fact that I could crush you like a worm, you are served and granted nearly every liberty, while I am property.”

“There is another word for the emotion you describe,” I replied, grinding my teeth together as my ribs compressed. “And none of that is my doing. I didn’t write the laws. Better to direct your hate at the system.”

She laughed, holding out the gown for me to step into. “Are you suggesting I take up the sympathizer banner, Pénélope? Your father would have me dispatched to the labyrinth within the hour of him discovering I’d been anything less than loyal.”

I glanced in the mirror, seeing the ensemble for what it was: a tool. My gown was innocent and sweet and entirely appropriate for the day, while the garment beneath constricted and molded my body, the effect subtly but undeniably alluring. “I don’t think he would,” I said, considering the young woman behind me in the reflection, only a handful of years older than I was myself. “Bastard or not, you’re still the King’s daughter.”

“I doubt my father would even notice I was dead, much less care.” Lessa’s voice was glib, but there were traces of an old hurt in it, buried deep but not forgotten.

“You’re wrong.” I started toward the door. “Neither my father nor my grandmother invest time or money in anything that doesn’t pay dividends, and you cost a great deal of both. Which leads me to believe that the King cares far more about your fate than you’ve been led to believe, and that one day, my family will use that power to their advantage.” I hesitated with my back to her, thinking of myself as much as the half-blood behind me. Lessa had done what she had to in order to make a life for herself.

For the sake of my sister, and for the sake of myself, it was time I did the same.

---

The markets were teeming with activity, dozens of human traders arriving with their wares to sell in exchange for Trollus gold. Many were the fair-skinned men and woman hailing from the Isle, but just as many bore the darker complexions from the continent and beyond, the gold we paid worth the perilous journey across the seas. All were oath-sworn – bound by magic to keep our existence a secret – and were experienced in our ways, my accoutrements recognizable to them, if not my face, and each of them bowed or curtseyed as I passed, eyes remaining fixed on the paving stones.

My destination was the clearing house, where the crown arranged the purchase of nearly all the goods brought into the city, which were in turn sold to the merchants who used them or sold them to the rest of those living in Trollus. The process was, ostensibly, to maintain control over prices and to prevent humans not authorized to trade from doing so, but most believed the true reason was because the crown turned a tidy profit as the middleman. I believed the real motivation was control. Control over what was bought and sold, who did the buying and selling, but most importantly, over the exchange of information between the inside and outside world. Nothing happened in Trollus that the Montignys didn’t know about. If Tristan intended to overthrow his father, then he might be in communication with human allies outside of Trollus, and for that to be happening, Marc had to be helping him.

Which was why I was here.

The clearing house was packed to the brim with those conducting business, but occupied as they were, more than a few commoners raised their eyebrows at the sight of me as I passed through the large hall, climbing the stairs to the offices of the trade magister, where I knew I’d find Marc in the thick of things.

The Comte de Courville was the King’s right-hand man, holding the key to the labyrinth and control over everything that entered and left Trollus. Marc was destined to inherit the role, but he’d taken on many of the duties early due to his father’s ailing health.

Two large guards stood outside Marc’s office, but neither made a move to stop me as I knocked on the heavy doors engraved with the Montigny crest.

“Yes?”

The sound of Marc’s voice, muffled or not, sent a thrill of anticipation racing through me, and I pushed inside. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

At the sight of me, he rose, banging into the desk with enough force that water sloshed out of the cup sitting on it. I caught the liquid with magic before it could damage any of the paperwork, returning it to its original receptacle as I nodded at the two humans standing across from him.

“Pénélope, I…” Marc trailed off, then coughed and straightened his shoulders. “Lady Pénélope, this is Monsieur Girard and his son Christophe. Their family has supplied grain and other foodstuffs to Trollus for several generations.” Then he gestured at me. “Her ladyship is the daughter of the Duke d’Angoulême.”

Both men bowed low, but I didn’t miss the slight stiffening in their shoulders at my name, suggesting they were not unaware of my father’s stance against their kind. “Do you wish for me to wait outside?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “We’re very nearly finished.”

I smiled and took a seat in the corner. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

They continued with a discussion of the price of some late season goods, the elder human doing the talking while his son listened on. Which was just as well, because the young man’s eyes kept drifting in my direction, then jerking away again as though he feared I’d burn them from their sockets if I caught him staring. He was blond and blue-eyed, skin ruddy from exposure to sun and elements, though I judged him to be of similar age to Marc and me. They both bore the faint scent of hay and horses, and I imagined him walking or riding through fields, the open sky over his head.

“I need you to retrieve something from Trianon,” Marc said. “You’d be compensated for the transport, and I’m able to provide the capital required up front.”

My ears perked up, but I hid my reaction, instead using threads of magic to pluck a blank piece of paper from a pile, as well as a pot of ink. It was a trick I’d used often: pretending to be engaged with my art while I listened to conversations going on around me.

“When would you be needing it, my lord?”

“As soon as possible.”

Creating a flat pane of magic, I set the paper atop it and then formed a pen of silvery blue, which I dipped in the ink. The boy’s image formed on the page beneath my hand, hair in disarray from an imagined wind, a faintly bashful smile on his face as though he’d been caught looking at a girl he fancied.

“Is the contact an associate of Trollus?”

“No, this is the first time we’ve dealt with them, so discretion will be paramount, as always.”

The boy’s body took shape beneath my hand, clothing modest but well-made, stained with clean earth rather than poor habits. The shoulders beneath still bore the slenderness of childhood, but were broadening and thickening as no troll’s would with the strength gained from hard labor.

“We could have it back to you within the week, if that suits, my lord.”

“It does.” Marc shifted on his chair. “It’s sensitive, so be certain to take care in the shipment.”

Why is he being so vague, I wondered, shading the boy’s sleeve. What is he trying to hide?

“As you say, my lord.”

“How do you wish to take your payment?”

“Regent’s mark in silver, if you would, my lord.”

My gaze twitched to the chest that floated up to Marc’s right. He counted the silver swiftly, pushing the stacks across the table. Then he added a modest stack of gold without comment. A bribe?

“Anything else you require, my lord?”

Marc shook his head, and I signed the bottom of the page with a large P, dried the ink with magic, then sent it floating across the room. The young man – Christophe – gaped at the floating page with wide eyes.

“Take it,” I said.

He gingerly plucked the page from the air, jaw dropping. “It’s… It’s me!”

Marc turned, and though his face was hidden by the shadows of his hood, I sensed the question in his eyes. Shrugging, I said, “Inspiration strikes when least expected.”

Truthfully, the expression on the young man’s face pleased me greatly, as did the notion of giving my art to someone who would value it. My work sold or was gifted to the wealthy – those who, while they might have an appreciation for art and talent, had countless pieces by artists as good as or better than me. My paintings were nothing more than additions to collections, rarely to be looked upon or thought of once hung on the wall. But for this boy, it would be special. Something to be cherished. That made it less a gift than an exchange, and one in which I came out ahead.

So caught up was I in the boy’s expression, that I didn’t hear the door open or notice the influx of power until Tristan plucked the sketch from the human’s hand. “What’s this?”

Panic crossed the boy’s face; half, I thought, because he was afraid of Tristan. But the other half was the fear of one about to have something precious taken from him, and I wanted to slap Tristan for being such a bully.

“Well?”

“It was drawn by her ladyship, Your Highness,” he responded, even as I snapped, “It was a gift. Give it back to him.”

“A gift…” Tristan’s eyes drifted to me. “You know the laws, Pénélope. Fair value must always be paid in exchanges with humans.”

The way he said humans sounded distinctly like vermin, and I glared at him. “It’s just a sketch. Five minutes’ worth of work.”

“Of your work.” Tristan cast a sly glance at the human boy. “Did you know that Lady Pénélope is reckoned one of the finest artists living? A portrait by her is worth a small fortune. Granted, this is only a quick sketch, but I’d still estimate its value at…” He frowned as though considering the numbers, then named a price that was painfully high. And painfully accurate. “You could purchase it, if you wanted.”

The boy’s cheeks were flushed to a high color, hands balled into fists as though he intended to strike out. But he only shook his head.

“Don’t want it?” Tristan waved the paper in front of the boy’s face, silver eyes wicked bright. “Be mindful that you tell the truth.”

“I want it.” The admission came out from between the boy’s clenched teeth. “But it’s beyond my means, Your Highness.”

“How unfortunate for you.”

“At least I had the opportunity to see it, Your Highness. My memory will have to do.”

Tristan snorted out an amused laugh, then waved a hand at them. “Go.”

I waited until the door shut before saying, “Was it really necessary for you to be so cruel?”

Tristan flopped down on one of the chairs. “I didn’t write the laws, Pénélope. But I do have to live by them, the same as you.”

“There’s a difference between living by them and using them to justify your ill behavior.”

“True.” He held up the page, focusing on my sketch. “This really is rather good. I’ll buy it from you for the novelty alone.”

“It’s not for sale.” I snatched it out of his hand, then bent my knees in the most cursory of curtsies. “Good day to you, Your Highness.”

“Pénélope, wait.” Marc’s voice followed me out into the hallway, but I was too enraged to stop, my heels making loud thumps against the floor as I headed toward the stairs.

“Wait!” Marc’s hand closed on my arm, tugging me off into a side chamber. “I’m sorry for that. He’s at his worst around them.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Even if he does think they are lesser, that’s no reason to be cruel. And why do you put up with it?”

Marc shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t have much choice.”

My magic writhed around me, burning hot with anger that he was in this position. That he was forced to turn a blind eye to behavior so at odds from his own. But it didn’t need to be that way. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Pénélope, please.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “If it matters to you, I can get the sketch to Chris. He’s here with his father often, and it’s… it’s not hard for me to get contraband in and out of Trollus.”

I heard his teeth click as though he realized that he’d said too much, and my heart skittered.

“Small things,” he added. “Sweets. Music. Novels. Things that violate the guild monopolies, but that are beneath the King’s notice. Like sketches.”

Or secret messages. And bribes.

“No,” I said, ignoring the guilt that flashed through me. “I’ll not have you risking your position by breaking the rules for me. But I do need to go.” Before he could say another word, I rushed out into the hall, skirts held up with one hand as I trotted with unladylike speed down the stairs and out into the city. I kept the same pace once I was in the market, searching the crowds of dark-haired trolls for a hint of yellow.

There.

I spotted him standing next to a mule, frowning as he stroked its neck. His father was deep in discussions with two merchantmen, which was just as well. The human jumped as I appeared next to him, causing the animal to snort in alarm until he calmed it with a practiced hand.

“I’m sorry for that,” I said. “He’s an ass sometimes. Most of the time, in fact.”

The boy – Christophe, I reminded myself – snorted out a burst of shocked laughter before clamping his mouth shut and looking around to see if he’d attracted any attention. “At least I get to leave,” he said. “You’re stuck here with him.”

“A valid point. Perhaps you might take pity and do me a kindness.” Holding up the sketch, I continued, “Would you like this?”

His tongue ran nervously over his lips. “I can’t afford to pay a fair price.”

“There is more than one way to pay,” I said. “What I’m looking for is information.”

As if sensing the tension of the situation, the mule snorted and tossed its head, and I glanced in his father’s direction to ensure we hadn’t caught his attention.

“What sort of information?”

“What are you retrieving from Trianon for Lord Marc?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. They come in boxes, but my father would have my hide if I ever opened them.”

Boxes? What could possibly be in them? “But you go with him to retrieve these boxes?”

“Aye, my lady.” His answer came quick, his desire to provide sufficient information to retrieve his prize obvious.

“Can you tell me from whom you retrieve them?”

“A man with a cart meets us outside of Trianon.”

Such secrecy.

I hadn’t the slightest notion what they were retrieving, but it had to be something illicit to merit the secrecy. Which meant it would be something my father would find interesting.

“Thank you,” I said, telling myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong as I tucked the sketch into his coat. That this was all in Marc’s best interest, even if it didn’t feel that way. “Consider this bought and paid for.” Then I gave him my most winning smile, and turned and walked away.