“Anything else you require, my lord?”
Marc shook his head, and I signed the bottom of the page with a large P, dried the ink with magic, then sent it floating across the room. The young man – Christophe – gaped at the floating page with wide eyes.
“Take it,” I said.
He gingerly plucked the page from the air, jaw dropping. “It’s… It’s me!”
Marc turned, and though his face was hidden by the shadows of his hood, I sensed the question in his eyes. Shrugging, I said, “Inspiration strikes when least expected.”
Truthfully, the expression on the young man’s face pleased me greatly, as did the notion of giving my art to someone who would value it. My work sold or was gifted to the wealthy – those who, while they might have an appreciation for art and talent, had countless pieces by artists as good as or better than me. My paintings were nothing more than additions to collections, rarely to be looked upon or thought of once hung on the wall. But for this boy, it would be special. Something to be cherished. That made it less a gift than an exchange, and one in which I came out ahead.
So caught up was I in the boy’s expression, that I didn’t hear the door open or notice the influx of power until Tristan plucked the sketch from the human’s hand. “What’s this?”
Panic crossed the boy’s face; half, I thought, because he was afraid of Tristan. But the other half was the fear of one about to have something precious taken from him, and I wanted to slap Tristan for being such a bully.
“Well?”
“It was drawn by her ladyship, Your Highness,” he responded, even as I snapped, “It was a gift. Give it back to him.”
“A gift…” Tristan’s eyes drifted to me. “You know the laws, Pénélope. Fair value must always be paid in exchanges with humans.”
The way he said humans sounded distinctly like vermin, and I glared at him. “It’s just a sketch. Five minutes’ worth of work.”
“Of your work.” Tristan cast a sly glance at the human boy. “Did you know that Lady Pénélope is reckoned one of the finest artists living? A portrait by her is worth a small fortune. Granted, this is only a quick sketch, but I’d still estimate its value at…” He frowned as though considering the numbers, then named a price that was painfully high. And painfully accurate. “You could purchase it, if you wanted.”
The boy’s cheeks were flushed to a high color, hands balled into fists as though he intended to strike out. But he only shook his head.
“Don’t want it?” Tristan waved the paper in front of the boy’s face, silver eyes wicked bright. “Be mindful that you tell the truth.”
“I want it.” The admission came out from between the boy’s clenched teeth. “But it’s beyond my means, Your Highness.”
“How unfortunate for you.”
“At least I had the opportunity to see it, Your Highness. My memory will have to do.”
Tristan snorted out an amused laugh, then waved a hand at them. “Go.”
I waited until the door shut before saying, “Was it really necessary for you to be so cruel?”
Tristan flopped down on one of the chairs. “I didn’t write the laws, Pénélope. But I do have to live by them, the same as you.”
“There’s a difference between living by them and using them to justify your ill behavior.”
“True.” He held up the page, focusing on my sketch. “This really is rather good. I’ll buy it from you for the novelty alone.”
“It’s not for sale.” I snatched it out of his hand, then bent my knees in the most cursory of curtsies. “Good day to you, Your Highness.”
“Pénélope, wait.” Marc’s voice followed me out into the hallway, but I was too enraged to stop, my heels making loud thumps against the floor as I headed toward the stairs.
“Wait!” Marc’s hand closed on my arm, tugging me off into a side chamber. “I’m sorry for that. He’s at his worst around them.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Even if he does think they are lesser, that’s no reason to be cruel. And why do you put up with it?”
Marc shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t have much choice.”
My magic writhed around me, burning hot with anger that he was in this position. That he was forced to turn a blind eye to behavior so at odds from his own. But it didn’t need to be that way. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Pénélope, please.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “If it matters to you, I can get the sketch to Chris. He’s here with his father often, and it’s… it’s not hard for me to get contraband in and out of Trollus.”
I heard his teeth click as though he realized that he’d said too much, and my heart skittered.
“Small things,” he added. “Sweets. Music. Novels. Things that violate the guild monopolies, but that are beneath the King’s notice. Like sketches.”
Or secret messages. And bribes.
“No,” I said, ignoring the guilt that flashed through me. “I’ll not have you risking your position by breaking the rules for me. But I do need to go.” Before he could say another word, I rushed out into the hall, skirts held up with one hand as I trotted with unladylike speed down the stairs and out into the city. I kept the same pace once I was in the market, searching the crowds of dark-haired trolls for a hint of yellow.
There.
I spotted him standing next to a mule, frowning as he stroked its neck. His father was deep in discussions with two merchantmen, which was just as well. The human jumped as I appeared next to him, causing the animal to snort in alarm until he calmed it with a practiced hand.
“I’m sorry for that,” I said. “He’s an ass sometimes. Most of the time, in fact.”
The boy – Christophe, I reminded myself – snorted out a burst of shocked laughter before clamping his mouth shut and looking around to see if he’d attracted any attention. “At least I get to leave,” he said. “You’re stuck here with him.”
“A valid point. Perhaps you might take pity and do me a kindness.” Holding up the sketch, I continued, “Would you like this?”
His tongue ran nervously over his lips. “I can’t afford to pay a fair price.”
“There is more than one way to pay,” I said. “What I’m looking for is information.”
As if sensing the tension of the situation, the mule snorted and tossed its head, and I glanced in his father’s direction to ensure we hadn’t caught his attention.
“What sort of information?”
“What are you retrieving from Trianon for Lord Marc?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. They come in boxes, but my father would have my hide if I ever opened them.”
Boxes? What could possibly be in them? “But you go with him to retrieve these boxes?”
“Aye, my lady.” His answer came quick, his desire to provide sufficient information to retrieve his prize obvious.
“Can you tell me from whom you retrieve them?”
“A man with a cart meets us outside of Trianon.”
Such secrecy.