“Of course.”
Vincent and Victoria’s manor was the unspoken neutral ground between us all. The one place in Trollus where we forgot the alliances and rivalries of family, blood, and rank, and where only our friendship mattered. I glanced up to where the fifteen-year-old twins each stood silently balanced on one foot on the wall surrounding the courtyard, faces bent in concentration as they carefully removed one block at a time from a vertical puzzle floating between them. They were giants, standing head and shoulders above even Marc, who was tall, their rare condition having killed their mother in childbirth. Their father had died days later from the shock of the bond breaking. The two had been raised by half-blood servants with only minimal interference from the crown, content to share the barony that was their birthright. As such, their politics were very much based on their own unique views of our small world. Friendship mattered a great deal to them, and they had no tolerance for infighting between us six.
“May I see what you’re working on?” Marc asked.
My heart beat a little faster at the question, but if I hadn’t been ready for him to view it, I wouldn’t have brought the canvas. “If you like.”
He came around the easel, and I held my breath, waiting for his reaction. I’d been working on it before the accident, but had only recently been able to complete the finishing touches.
He stiffened, and my heart sank. “You don’t care for it?”
“No. It is wretched to look upon.”
His voice was strangled and strange in my ears, and mortification flooded my veins. Always I was shy to show my work to others, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought that Marc would be the critic from whom I’d draw harsh words. I wanted to snatch up the canvas and run, but where would I go? Rather than a haven, my home was now a hell bent on punishing me for my weaknesses.
“Of all the subjects you might have chosen, why did you paint me?”
The plea in his voice stole the breath from my chest. Rising to my feet, I let everything in my hands fall to the ground and caught hold of his sleeve. “Why shouldn’t I paint you?”
“Because no matter how good your work, it isn’t anything that anyone would want to see.”
“Why not?” I asked, hating his words. “I always want to look upon my friends, but you make it so difficult, which makes this painting more meaningful. Because it’s made from the precious few glimpses I’ve been privileged enough to have. I paint those I care about.”
“Then paint Ana?s. Or the twins. Curses, Pénélope,” he snapped. “Paint Tristan. With your talent, they’d probably hang it in the gallery of the Kings.”
For weeks my chest had felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark so that it could explode. But this moment felt like the powder keg had been tossed on a bonfire.
“How dare you suggest I paint him? How dare you!” I knew I was the one who screamed the words, but they sounded like they’d come from someone else’s lips. Like some wild and maniacal girl had taken control of my body and my voice.
I let her.
Marc took a step back, but it wasn’t really him I was angry with. Turning on my heel, I stalked toward Tristan, his blank, unreadable Montigny face fueling my fury. “Of course I should paint you! Why should I, or anyone, paint anything else? Our world is cursed. Everyone is sick or twisted or dying from the iron and the darkness. Every last one of us, except for you!”
“Pénélope, stop.” Ana?s stepped between us. “Don’t do this. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
But what she meant was, please don’t say anything that would turn him against her. After everything, she still wanted to protect him. Still wanted to be with him. It had to end. “Move.”
She shook her head, and I knew I couldn’t force her. Ana?s was stronger than me in every possible way.
Tristan touched her arm. “Let her say what she wants to say.”
Ana?s hesitated, then reluctantly stepped aside. But she’d accomplished what she intended. My anger faltered, because I knew that dragging their broken betrothal out into the open wouldn’t matter to him. He was a black-hearted Montigny snake who cared nothing for anyone or anything but power. All I’d do was hurt the one person I cared about more than anything: Ana?s.
“Born perfect into a decaying and dying race,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Gifted with the beauty and grace of the kings of old and a power not seen since King Alexis himself. How can the broken ones like us compare with you and your… radiance?” I spat the word at him.
Something flashed across his face. A trace of… guilt? Then he sighed. “I’m sorry that fate was not kinder to you, Pénélope. I’m sorry for the part I played in the hurt that was done to you. But I had no more control over how I was born than anyone else.”
“I know.” My lips felt numb, and I turned away. For Ana?s’s sake, I’d always kept silent in the face of his cruel behavior, but what did it matter now if he learned what I truly thought of him? The twins had come down from the wall to stand next to Ana?s, but my eyes were all for Marc. Tristan was his cousin and closest friend, and he was loyal to him to a fault. All of them were, and I knew that what I intended to say would all but assure my eviction from our circle of friends.
But I said it anyway. “I’ll never paint you, Tristan. I paint those I love. Not those I hate.”
Chapter Two
Marc
If all the stone of the Forsaken Mountain rockslide had floated away and left Trollus bathed in sunlight, I could not have been more astonished than I was now.
“Pénélope!” Ana?s called, and started to run after her sister, but Tristan caught her sleeve.
“There’s nothing you can say. We’ve kept her in the dark all these years to protect her, Ana?s, and she needs that now more than ever. If your father comes to suspect our involvement with the sympathizers and believes she knows anything valuable, he’ll torture her to get the information. I’d rather she believe the worst about me than put her at risk.”
We all heard the words he didn’t say: that to the Duke d’Angoulême, his eldest daughter was now only a liability, and that made her expendable.
“I’ll talk to Pénélope.” The words were out before I had a chance to think about what I was saying. “I was the one who provoked her,” I added when Tristan frowned. “I… I criticized her painting.” My eyes flicked to Ana?s’s, and she nodded ever so slightly in understanding.