“Leave that to me,” my father responded. “I–”
The current tugged insistently at my raft, and my fingers slipped. I floated through the tunnel, unable to hear what his response was, or if he’d even given one. All that mattered now was making it clear of his traps. Of getting out of the atrium and out of my house to warn Marc of my father’s plans.
Tears of effort streamed down my face as I exited the tunnel, but still I looked up.
Prince Roland looked down. He cocked his head slightly to the side, clearly recognizing my weakening illusion for what it was, and smiled.
Fear like nothing I’d ever known filled me, the current suddenly sluggish and slow and doing nothing to whisk me away.
A filament of magic nudged the edge of my raft and I wobbled. Roland’s smile grew, and magic nudged me again, harder this time. My leg slipped off the edge, and I jerked it back, clinging to the soft mess that was sinking deeper and deeper.
My breath came in fast little gasps, but there was nothing I could do but watch as the mad prince reached out one little hand and flicked his finger.
My magic disappeared and I sank like a stone, my bare feet hitting the stream bed.
Nothing happened.
Barely an inch ahead of my toes I felt the faintest warmth of magic, but luck or fate or the stars had allowed the current to pull me just beyond the reach of my father’s trap. But Roland knew someone was here. Knew there was a spy in his midst.
He stared down at me and I stared back, frozen within the weak cover of water and darkness.
Then a feral fury filled the little boy’s face, and he half turned as though he’d been called. I wondered, in that brief, painful moment, if my father knew just how dangerous the six-year-old Montigny prince was. Then Roland’s expression smoothed. He waggled his fingers once at me and disappeared into the confines of the gazebo.
I could scarcely breathe, and it took a moment to regain enough control of my limbs to take one step back, then two, then three, until I was hidden around the bend of the stream. I remained crouched in the icy water until the meeting finished, until the group had departed from the atrium, until the house grew silent.
Only then did I find the courage to move.
I ran.
Chapter Thirteen
Marc
I sat on my bed with a book in hand, trying to distract myself enough that I’d grow weary and fall asleep. Thus far, I’d had little luck, and I fully expected to have another sleepless night.
Tick.
I frowned and glanced at the window, as the sound of a rock falling from above, small or otherwise, was never not unnerving.
Tick.
Unease prickled down my spine. I hadn’t noticed any movements in the ground today – certainly not a shake of magnitude – but the tree was a sensitive structure, and even the slightest shift meant trouble.
Tick.
I went to the window, flinging it open and leaning out to look up right as a tiny rock hit me in the face. A rock that had come from below. I swore, ready to chastise the twins for one of their pranks, but it was neither Vincent nor Victoria standing beneath me. It was Pénélope.
I didn’t bother asking what she was doing here – her wide eyes and bedraggled appearance told me enough. Wrapping magic around her waist, I glanced around to make sure there was no one on the grounds, then lifted her up and into my room, taking her arms the moment she was inside.
She sank to the floor, dragging in gulp after gulp of air. Only then did I notice that she had no light, the press of her magic so faint that if I closed my eyes, I could well imagine that it was a half-blood sewer worker kneeling before me rather than a full-blooded aristocrat. I examined her for signs of injury, for bruises or blood, but there was nothing.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head once, then slumped forward, resting her head against the carpet. “My father…”
“What did he do to you?”
“Nothing,” she gasped out. “Not… to… me.”
She was shaking, her hands icy in mine, and fear bit deep into my chest. It was almost human how fragile she was, and her life was spent surrounded by those who bordered on invincibility. Many who’d do her harm if they could. And I had no way to protect her.
She had no way to protect herself.
“Stay here,” I said, warming the room before I exited, running silently down the hallway to my father’s chambers. He was with the King, and there was no one to question me as I snatched up a bottle of brandy and a glass, hurrying back to my rooms.
Pénélope had regained some of her composure and moved to one of the chairs, though her elbow rested heavily on its arm. “Drink this.” Brandy sloshed onto my hands as I poured the glass, the liquid in the bottle trembling in my shaking grip.
The contents went down in one gulp, and she held out her hand for more. I filled her glass, then drank directly from the bottle myself, wishing I was human so that the drink might steady my nerves.
“My father hosted a gathering tonight,” she said. “A secret meeting with my grandmother, my cousins, Comtesse Báthory, Prince Roland, and others who I couldn’t identify. I spied on them.”
I sat at her feet, using the burn from the rest of the bottle of brandy to focus myself as I struggled to keep any form of reaction off my face.
“He thinks it’s Tristan leading the sympathizers,” she said, setting her empty cup aside, “and that you’re the one helping him. He’s going to attempt to raid a sympathizer meeting to catch you and then deliver you to the King to be charged with treason.”
“I see,” I said, because silence would have revealed more. But it was almost impossible to contain my shock that Angoulême’s suspicions ran so deep. For him to be involving others… that meant he was certain of our guilt and only needed undeniable proof. “That’s a bold accusation.”
Rising to my feet, I went to my desk and adjusted the series of miniatures one of the servants had moved while cleaning, putting them back in order. And I waited for her to ask if it was true. For her to finally prove that everything between us was false – her motivations not driven by affection, but by a desire to appease her father. Who was my enemy.
But she said nothing.
Which was somehow worse, because the tension grew and grew, the air in my room too hot and close, making it hard to breathe. One of us needed to say something, either her or me or… “I can’t imagine your father would react kindly to being spied on. Why would you take that sort of risk?”
I heard her swallow hard in the silence that followed, then she said, “I…”