“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, gazing out over the city. “I don’t believe there is anywhere in all the world as beautiful as Trollus.”
I’d heard a human trader once comment that we could decorate our city as much as we wanted, but that it would still be a cage. There was truth to that, but… was it a cage if one did not seek to escape its confines? If it held everything one had ever wanted? If it promised a future worth fighting for?
Below us, the icy mist circled and swirled away, turning the glow of troll-light ethereal and mystical. Aristocrats and commoners alike strolled through the city streets, tiny globes floating in their wakes like swimming stars, and above it all, the moon peered through the hole in the rocky ceiling above, a portal to the world beyond.
“This is my favorite spot,” Pénélope said. “I’ve painted this scene a hundred times, but it’s never been quite right. It always comes out dark, but Trollus isn’t darkness, it’s light.”
I smiled into her shoulder. “Walk with me. I want to show you something.”
We took the path that paralleled the river, her arm in mine, and though I sensed the scrutiny of those we passed, it didn’t bother me. I bought her frosted cakes and sweet wine from a vendor, and we stopped briefly to listen to a poet recite a composition to a crowd. We talked about everything and anything, and I found myself with more words than breath, her eagerly nodding, our voices spilling over each other’s in enthusiasm until we were both laughing at the beautiful chaos of our conversation. And all I could think of was that this could be my life. With her, this is what my life would be like.
This is a farce. A scheme. It isn’t real.
But it felt real, and I never wanted to let it go.
“What are we doing here?” Pénélope asked as we skirted the walls of the palace, following a white-graveled path toward a gated entrance.
“You’ll see.”
“Good evening, my lord,” one of the guards at the gate said, swinging it open. “My lady.”
“But we aren’t allowed in here without a royal,” Pénélope hissed, her eyes wide as I led her into the glass gardens.
“Or a royal’s permission,” I said. “Trust me.”
As soon as I said it, it dawned on me what a ludicrous request it was, given we were both here with an agenda. Yet she only smiled and said, “I do.” Then, letting go of my hand, she trotted down a path, silver blue skirts floating out behind her. I trailed after her, content to watch a guild-trained artist delight in what was undoubtedly Trollus’s greatest artistic achievement, but one that the crown kept for its eyes only.
Pénélope was like a child in a garden full of sweets, whirling and turning, focusing on the curve of a leaf only to be lured away by the petal of a flower, her speech more exclamations of delight than words.
“Have you never been here before?” I asked.
“Once, as part of my guild training. But the masters loomed over us the entire time as though they thought we intended to smash the whole place to bits. And, of course, they weren’t lit.” She smiled, fingers trailing over a glass dragonfly perched on the mouth of a flower. “They were designed to be lit, you know? It’s the only way to truly see all the detail and nuance.”
“So I hear.” So I knew. It was why I’d brought her here when I had. The King walked with the Queen after dinner, and he always lit them for her. His magic clung to its purpose with ruthless resolve, so I knew they’d remain bright long after they had departed.
“It’s a shame not everyone can see them,” Pénélope said. “Do you think Tristan would ever consider changing the rules, or is that too egalitarian for him?”
There was a bite to her voice, and my skin crawled, the lights around me seemed to move and shake like an illusion on the verge of cracking. “I doubt it’s a matter he’s given much thought.”
“What about you?” she asked. “If it was your choice, what would you do?”
“I’d tear down the walls and make sure the light never went dark.”
She said nothing, turning her face toward a fountain, but not before I saw a faint smile cross her lips.
Pénélope wandered down a path lined with weeping willows, glowing leaves suspended from branches formed of silvery wire that swayed in the shifting air. She turned in slow circles, face tilted upward, then came back to stop in front of me. Reaching up, she pushed back the hood of my cloak, then her hand dropped to my forearm, her eyes searching mine. “I wish you wouldn’t wear that around me.”
“Ha…” My throat strangled the word, because it wasn’t habit. The shadows made me brave.
“How you look is part of what makes you the way you are,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”
Kiss her.
The clocks in the palace chimed the midnight hour, urging me on. I felt her rise on her toes, leaning into me, her lips slightly parted.
Then abruptly, she took a step back and asked, “Is Tristan very cross with me?”
The moment shattered.
“No,” I stammered, struggling for words for the first time that night. “He… He understands that, umm… circumstances have been difficult for you.”
“No doubt he’s given it little thought,” she said. “His mind is probably consumed with greater concerns?”
The question was tentative, but it was there, and I felt like an idiot. For letting myself forget that there were ulterior motives and schemes swirling beneath what I’d stupidly believed was the most perfect night of my life. For letting myself believe she might want this as much as I did.
And Ana?s’s words echoed through my thoughts: Pénélope’s survival depends on you, Marc. On how well you toe the line between giving her enough information to be valuable and giving her so much you betray our cause.
Tristan would have known exactly what to say, how to give an answer that was anything but. I wasn’t so gifted with duplicity. “Maybe you let your family’s prejudices color your views. You should make your own judgments.”
My voice was unintentionally sharp, my answer sounding like a reprimand, and she flinched, then said, “I didn’t mean… That is to say, I know he’s your friend, so obviously…”
“I didn’t… I know he can be frustrating…”
Our words tumbled over each other like a mess of spilled paint, ugly and unintended, and we both abruptly fell silent, the air burning with magic from our collective unease.
“It’s late,” Pénélope blurted out. “I should’ve been home hours ago.”
“I’ll walk you back.” I was desperate to diffuse the tension, to reclaim what we’d had, but she shook her head. “Better you didn’t. My father…”
Will grill you for every word I said.
“Goodnight, Marc,” she finished, and before I could respond, she disappeared into the garden.
Chapter Eight
Pénélope
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.