I bowed low again to my brother, forcing a hint of irritation onto my face to hide my astonishment. How had our father convinced her to play this part? As far as I knew, she hated him. He’d abandoned her to the law and fate without a second thought – letting her live a life of servitude while the rest of her blood were served. But perhaps she hated Angoulême even more? His views on the half-bloods made my father’s look moderate, and she’d lived in his household for almost her entire life. Perhaps what my father had offered her was a chance for revenge?
Were there no limits to his power? Even now, after everything that had happened, the extent of my father’s machinations still amazed me. He seemed able to predict every move that not only I, but everyone else made. He had a plan for every possible circumstance, and the strategies he had in place seemed endless. He had an endgame for every game, and the entire city, perhaps even the entire Isle dancing to his tune. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d almost admire his genius.
I watched the auction with glazed eyes, half my mind noting the half-bloods being marched across the stage and sold to the highest bidder, while the other half puzzled through my problems, all of which affected those who mattered to me most. No matter how I laid the puzzles out, I could not seem to solve a single one. No allegiance was certain. No motivation obvious. And at the center of everything was my father, and it seemed to me that in order to solve any of these puzzles, I needed to solve him.
And to do that, I would need help.
* * *
“I was wondering when you’d bother to visit. Seems to me you’ve been too busy learning to boil eggs and darn socks than to visit your poor old aunt.”
“It is good to see you too,” I said, waiting for the Duchesse Sylvie’s guard – who had reluctantly announced me – to leave. “And you are neither old nor poor.”
One of her eyebrows rose. “Dear, then?”
“Dear to me,” I replied, bowing low. “But it would seem I have fallen out of your favor if you have knowingly left me to dine on the results of my scavengings. It is I who am the poor one.”
“Still a smart mouth on you. élise!” She shouted the half-blood’s name at the top of her lungs, despite the fact the girl stood only a few paces away. I had been relieved to see she was well and that my aunt had taken her back under her wing after my ill-fated coup.
“Fetch His Highness something to eat. I’ll have some of whatever you bring, so mind you only spit in his portion.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” élise curtseyed deeply. “I’ll ensure you have separate plates.”
Apparently I had a few more apologies to make.
élise hesitated before leaving. “Would Her Majesty…”
My aunt silently shook her head, waving her off. Strange...
I circled the chaise my mother sat upon so that I might see her better. Part of me wished that I had not. Mother’s normally serene face was lined with tension, the muscles in her jaw clenched so tightly that they bulged. Her eyes fixed on some unseen thing, her pupils dilated wide and her brow furrowed. Her hands sat in her lap, kneading each other so hard that red marks rose and faded on her flesh. “Mother?” I asked hesitantly. I had never seen her like this, not ever.
If she heard me, she showed no sign of it.
“Mother?” I started to reach for her, but a coil of my aunt’s magic caught my arm.
“Have a care, Tristan. She is of an ill temper.”
Was this my doing? Was she upset with me? Of all those I’d worried about angering with my actions, my mother hadn’t been one of them. Never mind that her mind was not entirely in this world, she had never been cross with me in all my life. And there had certainly been times I’d deserved it.
You attacked your own father, a voice whispered inside my head. You almost killed him. She might have died, and your aunt along with her. What did you expect?
Not this.
Cautiously, I moved into her line of sight, keeping my magic ready to defend myself if need be. She’d never tried to harm me, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. It certainly didn’t mean she couldn’t – weak women did not become queens of Trollus. “Mother?” Every inch of me singing with tension, I tentatively touched her shoulder.
She flinched, and I jerked my hand back, hardly noticing the jolt of pain in my wrist. Please don’t let it come to this, I silently prayed. Please don’t let her have turned on me.
“Tristan?” Her eyes focused on my face, all the tension and fury washing away in a flood. “You’re here!”
“I am.” I tried to smile, but my face felt incapable of it. “Are you angry with me?” The question came out before I even knew I was thinking it.
“Why should I be angry with you?” Her face managed to be guileless and unreadable at the same time.
My mouth went dry, and I struggled with what to say to her. “Because I have not been a good son.”