Over the coming days, I found myself a creature consumed, the intrigue I’d become a part of fighting for precedence with more personal thoughts, the only commonality between them that they both centered on Marc. I saw him often, but always we were in the company of others, and that charged moment we’d shared in the throne room, the intensity of physical contact, remained so elusive and impossible to repeat that part of me wondered if it had happened at all.

But while that fleeting few minutes of intimacy slipped further into the fabric of my imagination, the notion that my friends – and my sister – formed the heart of the sympathizer cause became more and more of a reality to me. Over and over, I ran through the events of that day, and those that had preceded them. From Marc arranging for the human trader to transport contraband, to the twins being behind the strange order, to my father’s inference that he’d expected to catch the humans with propaganda. Most of all, I reflected on how Anaïs had lured my father to the King’s audience where he articulated how little regard the upper classes possessed for half-blood life minutes before sympathizer propaganda was released attacking that very belief system. All of it seemed like a perfectly orchestrated plan to stir up anger against the King and the aristocracy, and one that could only have been accomplished by players at the highest levels.

And I’d put everything they were working toward in jeopardy.

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t known. That I’d been motivated to rid my sister, Marc – and all of Trollus – of a future ruler who I’d believed was a villain. A tyrant in the making. Good intentions didn’t make up for the fact that I’d given my father information to help in his war against the only faction in Trollus attempting to do any good. Which meant I needed to find a way to undo the damage that I’d done.

---

Opportunity came in the form of one of my father’s gatherings. A select group of aristocrats arriving under the cloak of illusion through the open front door, the only clue to their presence the massing of power under our roof. A group of trolls who, for reasons unknown, wanted no one in Trollus to know they were meeting in one place.

Which, in my mind, meant they were discussing something worth hearing, especially when they all ventured into the atrium.

Easing open one of the delicate doors, I slipped off my shoes and crept into the glass structure. This was my father’s abode, and for that reason alone, I avoided it unless in my sister’s company. Still, I knew the paths through the garden like the back of my hand, as well as the best places to hide.

Extinguishing my light, I drifted through the maze of stone sculptures and fountains, the air full of mist from water that sprayed and soared in every direction, whether it belched from the mouths of dragons or created arching paths for dancing pixies. Streams gurgled under delicate bridges, tiny fish made of gold and jewels glittering in the light of the artfully placed lamps. Heated sconces released the scent of gardenias, and from above, raindrops fell in an occasional storm, making a soothing pitter-patter against the ground below.

At the center of the oasis sat a large gazebo, and it was from there that I felt the press of magic from at least a dozen powerful trolls. I could hear nothing over the echoing sound of running water, which was likely why they had chosen this meeting place. At best, they discussed secrets, at worst, treason against the crown. My bet, my hope, was they discussed both. The area around them would be warded, but I knew my father and his traps. And how to avoid them.

Reaching one of the small bridges, I crouched next to it and formed a small raft of magic that I placed atop the water. Hooking my shoe heels into the bodice of my dress, I knelt on the raft, holding onto the bridge until I had my balance, an illusion of running water balanced over my head. Then I let go.

The raft wobbled and rocked as it made its way down the stream, and I held my breath as I floated over the perimeter of my father’s ward, the ground and stream bed coated with magic set to do horrible things to anyone who set foot where they were unwanted. That included me, should I fall in and touch the bottom.

Voices reached my ears.

“It could be nothing more than rumors, you know,” a woman said, and I recognized the voice of the Comtesse Báthory. “Half-blood wishful thinking that swirls and grows until fiction becomes fact because they’re too stupid to realize the difference? You do recall these same sort of whispers grew some twenty years ago, and nothing came of that.”

“They aren’t just rumors.” My father’s voice was sour. “And it isn’t just half-bloods. There is support for the sympathizer cause growing amongst certain of the guilds, and possibly even into the ranks of the aristocracy. For that to be occurring means they’ve found a leader who can do more than just spin words – whoever it is has power.”

The raft wobbled, and I clenched my teeth against a gasp. Then I slowly lifted my head. I was approaching the gazebo; the Comtesse, with her hair piled a foot or more above her head, sat on one of the divans with her back to me. My father sat to her left and my grandmother next to him, but I could see nothing more of their company but the balls of light hanging over their heads.

“And you think this leader is Tristan de Montigny?” Báthory laughed, and the sound made me cringe. She was a murderess of some fame even within Trollus, the stories of what she did to her victims enough to curdle even the King’s blood. He’d come down hard on her recently, which explained why she was in my father’s company. Her interest was in carnage, not in politics.

“My, my, how your tune has changed, Your Grace,” she continued. “Not so long ago you seemed willing to turn a blind eye to any of the boy’s faults if only he kept his sights on your precious Anaïs. Now that we all know her blood is faulty, you seek to throw mud on his character in the most ridiculous of ways.”

My father shifted, his shoulders rigid, and my heart roared in my ears for fear that he would turn and see the distortion of my illusion.

Báthory cackled. “The half-bloods loathe him even more than they do his father,” she said. “From their own lips I’ve heard their disdain, and their fear. Just last month I watched him throw a servant in the river because the girl had spilled a drop of sauce on his sleeve.”

I was almost to the tunnel leading under the gazebo. Digging my fingers and toes into the magic beneath me, I reached up with one hand and caught at the edge, holding myself in place against the current, but blissfully out of sight.

My grandmother made a noise of disgust. “And what fate would’ve befallen the servant if it had been your sleeve, my lady?”

“The river would’ve run red,” Báthory responded, her voice dreamy – clearly missing the point. But I hadn’t. I’d witnessed the same incident and knew for a fact the half-blood had come out of the incident unscathed but for her drenched livery. Tristan could have done much worse, and no one would have cared. But he hadn’t. And, as I bent my memory to the task, I realized he never had injured a half-blood beyond the slice of his cruel words. Just how much of his behavior was an act?

“But Your Grace, we’ve had him followed for weeks and weeks,” a man’s voice said, and I recognized it as belonging to one of my cousins. “He’s not meeting with them.”

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t leading them through an agent.”

Sweat trickled down my forehead, the magic beneath me trembling with the effort it took to sustain its shape. But I had to hear this.

“Who do you favor for the role?”

“The Biron boy is the obvious choice – those other two fools he keeps company with haven’t the wherewithal for the task.”

The gazebo filled with laughter.

“You jest, Your Grace,” someone said. “Marc Biron is a broken boy content to hide in the shadows. He barely has the bravery to speak to a crowd of three, much less muster the enthusiasm of thousands of half-bloods.”

Fury gave my magic strength and my raft steadied beneath me. Their mockery didn’t surprise me, but still I hated that they’d judge Marc so cruelly. He was twice the man of any of those present.

“What about Anaïs?” Báthory asked. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes, and even to those without, that she’s in love with Tristan.”

The gazebo grew silent, and I prayed no one would hear the water sloshing over my raft, my fingernails scraping against the stone.

“Anaïs is no sympathizer,” my father said, and my blood chilled. “From her own lips she has told me that she believes half-bloods and humans to be inferior to us.”

Which is exactly why she was fighting on their behalf. A latent pang of guilt bit at my insides as I remembered how I’d accused her otherwise.

“Our focus,” my father said, “must be on capturing their leader.”

“How?”

“We know the sympathizers are meeting in the Dregs. When the time is right, I propose a raid to catch the Biron boy in the act.”

“And then what?” Báthory asked. “Attempt to force the information that Tristan is the true leader of the revolution out of him? Do you honestly believe the King will allow us to torture his nephew, the son of his closest advisor?”

“Hardly.” My father snorted with amusement. “We publicly deliver Marc to the King and leave Thibault to extract the information by whatever means he sees fit. He’ll have no choice.”

My raft wobbled, and I sank deeper in the water, unable to stop bits of magic from breaking away. And I had nothing more to give. My dress was drenched, my body trembling with effort. Another minute, and I’d be in the water, which would see me either dead or caught. And I needed to get this information to Marc.

“And if the boy won’t turn on his cousin?” Báthory asked. “A lack of loyalty isn’t one of his faults – he might well take the information to the grave rather than betray Tristan.”

“Leave that to me,” my father responded. “I–”

The current tugged insistently at my raft, and my fingers slipped. I floated through the tunnel, unable to hear what his response was, or if he’d even given one. All that mattered now was making it clear of his traps. Of getting out of the atrium and out of my house to warn Marc of my father’s plans.

Tears of effort streamed down my face as I exited the tunnel, but still I looked up.

Prince Roland looked down. He cocked his head slightly to the side, clearly recognizing my weakening illusion for what it was, and smiled.

Fear like nothing I’d ever known filled me, the current suddenly sluggish and slow and doing nothing to whisk me away.

A filament of magic nudged the edge of my raft and I wobbled. Roland’s smile grew, and magic nudged me again, harder this time. My leg slipped off the edge, and I jerked it back, clinging to the soft mess that was sinking deeper and deeper.

My breath came in fast little gasps, but there was nothing I could do but watch as the mad prince reached out one little hand and flicked his finger.

My magic disappeared and I sank like a stone, my bare feet hitting the stream bed.

Nothing happened.

Barely an inch ahead of my toes I felt the faintest warmth of magic, but luck or fate or the stars had allowed the current to pull me just beyond the reach of my father’s trap. But Roland knew someone was here. Knew there was a spy in his midst.

He stared down at me and I stared back, frozen within the weak cover of water and darkness.

Then a feral fury filled the little boy’s face, and he half turned as though he’d been called. I wondered, in that brief, painful moment, if my father knew just how dangerous the six-year-old Montigny prince was. Then Roland’s expression smoothed. He waggled his fingers once at me and disappeared into the confines of the gazebo.

I could scarcely breathe, and it took a moment to regain enough control of my limbs to take one step back, then two, then three, until I was hidden around the bend of the stream. I remained crouched in the icy water until the meeting finished, until the group had departed from the atrium, until the house grew silent.

Only then did I find the courage to move.

I ran.