“Do what you want.”
I bit my lip. His words sounded like an attack, and in a way, they were. But not at me. He was attacking himself. His guilt and grief made my heart hurt, and I knew he was pushing me away to punish himself. “Don’t do this.”
The cab pulled to a stop. “We’re here.” He didn’t wait for the hotel footmen to open the door, instead flinging it open himself and stepping down. I started to follow, but he blocked my way, his gaze fixed on my feet. “You should go home. I’ll pay him to take you there.”
I lifted my chin. “No.”
“Do what you want. You always do anyway,” he snapped, turning to pay the driver and leaving a footman to help me out. Without looking at me once, he offered me an arm and escorted me up the steps into the lobby. It was lovely and grand, with crystal chandeliers and lush carpets, massive framed landscapes and seascapes hanging on walls papered in silk. A man played a piano for a handful of onlookers holding drinks, all of them noticing us while pretending not to as we walked toward the staircase. My presence here with him was scandalous in their eyes, but I was far past caring.
Up and up we walked, my feet burning where my shoes rubbed against scrapes and blisters. My skirts were soaked and I was freezing, but I was far more worried for Tristan than I was for me. He’d let guilt over this consume him.
His suite of rooms took up a third of the top floor, and they were warm from the glow of banked fires and lit with lamps of green and gold glass. Pulling my cloak off, I draped it over the back of a chair to dry. Tristan strode across the room, the fire flaring up with magic as he approached. With vicious jerks, he removed the gloves from his hands and threw them into the flames. His coat and shirt followed suit, then he dropped to his knees to watch it burn, the smell of the smoke acrid and horrible.
“How will I tell élise and Zoé that I killed their aunt? After all the other hurt I’ve caused them, and now this?”
He was a dark silhouette against the orange glow of the fire. I stayed where I was, afraid to speak and afraid to stay silent. “Tristan, I was there when Esmeralda made her bargain with Reagan. She did it so that she could talk to me.” I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering the moment. “She wanted to tell me about the injustices the half-bloods faced because she believed I was in a position to help them. At the time I was too concerned with myself to appreciate the risk she was taking, but I did not fail to notice how much she cared for her nieces. Helping them was what she cared for most – what she’d dedicated her life to. And you gave her a chance to do that.”
“She helped me more than I ever helped her,” he replied. “And I repaid that debt by killing her.”
“You may have struck the blow, but it was our enemies – yours, mine, and hers – who killed her,” I said, clenching the damp fabric of my skirt. “Reagan may have held the debt, but we both know she was acting under orders. He could have sent anyone after me – there are men and women aplenty who would kill for the promise of gold. Esmeralda was chosen, forced to do this against her will, because she was our ally. She was sent to kill me because even if she failed, the action would still land a very painful blow.”
“My father didn’t do this,” Tristan said softly. “He wouldn’t send someone to kill you.”
I peeled the black lace gloves off my hands, letting them fall to the floor. With one finger, I traced the silver marks painted across my fingers. “I know.” I swallowed hard. “I will never claim to understand your father or to support his methods, but I know with certainty that he wants you to succeed him. This was Angoulême’s doing.”
“Yes.” There was a faint shake to Tristan’s voice. “And that he was willing to make such a bold move makes me very afraid of what is happening in my home.”
A home he felt powerless to protect. The weight of his guilt made my shoulders sag – not only for Esmeralda’s death, but also for having left his friends, his family, his entire people to fend against the worst. Picking my way around the furniture, I made my way toward him.
“Cécile, there’s something I have to tell you.” The words came out in a rush and I froze.
“I didn’t have to kill her.” His voice was ragged. “I could have stopped her just as easily as I stopped that bullet.”
The thought had occurred to me, but I refused to make him feel worse by saying so. “You had only seconds to act before she fired her pistol. You were only trying to save my life.”
The only sound was the crackle of the fire, his lack of response making my stomach clench as I realized this confession was not over. “Tristan?”