I scowled. “That isn’t what you said yesterday, Your Grace. Unless, of course, you were lying?”
His laughter echoed through the courtyard, mocking me from every corner. “Is that what I said? Are you sure?”
Even though I already knew the truth, my heart still sunk to know how thoroughly he had played me. Like a finely tuned instrument.
“A wise man once wrote that the truth spoken may not be the truth you think you hear. I would have thought you’d learned that by now, little bird.”
“Leave her alone, Angoulême.”
The soles of Marc’s boots smacked against the stairs as he leapt down them two at a time. Striding across the courtyard, he stepped between the Duke and me. “He doesn’t want you anywhere near her.”
“I haven’t harmed her in any way. I am well aware of His Majesty’s laws.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t intend to.” To my amazement, Marc shoved Angoulême backwards. “Leave, now.”
The Duke’s face darkened. “You dare lay a hand on me, you twisted wretch! I outrank you. In more ways than one.”
“I’m under Tristan’s orders not to let you anywhere near the Lady Cécile, and last time I checked, Your Grace, the heir to the throne outranked you. In more ways than one.”
I felt the air around me grow hot, their magic manifesting and drawing together. “I’m not afraid to die, Angoulême,” Marc said softly. “Are you?”
“You think you can best me, boy?”
Marc laughed. “No, but I think I can hold you back long enough for Tristan to get here. And I know he can best you. He’ll tear your body into so many pieces that what’s left won’t amount to more than a smear of blood on the street.”
Angoulême paled. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you sure enough to tempt fate?” Marc’s voice was chilly.
Without another word, the Duke spun on heels, hurrying up the steps and out of sight.
I tried to calm my racing heart. “He won’t forgive you for this,” I said.
“I’ll add it to the list of things he’ll never forgive me for,” Marc muttered. “Are you all right?”
“Fine – I think he was just trying to scare me. And send a message to Tristan.”
“He was expecting it.” Marc shoved his hands in his pockets and stared silently at my piano for a long moment before speaking. “Cécile, I want to apologize for what I said to you in the labyrinth. How I behaved. It’s just that…”
I held up a hand. “There is nothing to forgive.” Slipping my arm through his, I sighed. “Let’s walk. I need to be away from this space.”
We wandered aimlessly through the glass gardens, which never ceased to amaze me: the detail blown into each plant, the thorns on the rose bushes, the pinecones and seedpods artistically scattered beneath the trees, the tiny drops of glass dew suspended beneath the tips of leaves. Unlit, they were a thing of beauty, but flooded with troll-light, they were magical, ethereal even. “How long did it take to create?” I asked, bending down to look at a gardenia that was so realistic, I half expected to smell its sweet perfume when I inhaled.
“Three hundred and thirty-seven years.”
I smiled at his troll-like precision.
“Why didn’t they use color? I’ve seen it in other glassworks in Trollus.”
“You would have to ask someone in the Artisans’ Guild, but if I were to speculate… it would be because they knew it would be a pale imitation of the real thing.”
“Or perhaps they couldn’t remember the colors,” I said, closing my eyes and trying to visualize fields of green grass and vibrant wildflowers. Already it seemed something from another life.
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t you ever wish you could see it, Marc? Stand in the ocean and feel the water swirl around your knees? Feel the blast of winter snow coming off the mountains or the scorching heat of the summer sun? To walk through a field of golden wheat just before harvest, or gallop through a meadow sweet with the smells of spring?”
I sat on one of the stone benches scattered throughout the garden, the weight of memory heavy upon me. “Don’t you ever dream of it?”
Marc looked away so that I could only see his profile, so handsome on its own. So like his cousin’s.
“No,” he said. “I don’t dream of that.”
“What do you dream of?”
His shoulders jerked as if I had slapped him.
“Pénélope.” His voice rasped over her name like he hadn’t said it in a very long time. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.” He sat heavily on the bench next to me, head in his hands.