Silence. Then he said, “All right.”
He pushed past me, then froze, and when I turned, it was to see a hooded figure standing at the base of the cellar stairs, several other similarly attired trolls lurking behind him.
“Well, well, my lord Comte,” the Duke d’Angoulême said, pushing back his hood. “I did not expect to find you standing here. Whatever will His Majesty think?”
Several half-bloods screamed, the mass of them pressing to the far side of the cellar as the Duke walked toward my father. One of the other hooded figures darted into the crowd, snatching hold of one of the half-bloods, who screamed as he was torn apart, the Comtesse Báthory’s familiar laugh cutting through the room.
“Do something,” I shouted at Tristan.
His magic surged, tearing down the barrier, but as he did, my father turned. “Run!”
Then the air filled with power, more than I’d known he’d possessed, and the ground shook with a resounding boom.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Pénélope
I watched Marc depart for the meeting with the half-bloods with a heavy heart, hating that I’d been the one to cost him something that had mattered so much. Logically, I understood Tristan’s concerns – saw the need for the half-bloods to know who the true leader of the revolution was. What I did not understand was why Tristan seemed intent on driving Marc away when he was so integral to their plots. What we’d done didn’t seem to warrant the reaction.
But the more I thought on it, the more I realized that Tristan’s actions were as much a way to protect himself as they were to protect the sympathizer cause, if not more. Marc was like an older brother to him, and I thought, perhaps, that he was unconsciously pushing him away to insulate himself from what he saw as Marc’s imminent demise. There was only one way, as far as I could see, to undo the harm that had been done to their relationship, and that was for me to survive.
To live.
Such a simple thing, on the surface. Heart to keep beating, lungs to keep breathing, but my father was not wrong when he’d said I faced a certain inevitability. The child would come, and while I hoped and prayed with all my heart that it would be many months from now, and that he or she would live, I knew that the more trauma my body suffered, the less likely I was to survive.
Which meant the less likely it was that Marc would survive.
The injustice of it, the unfairness, ground upon my mind as I paced through the house, trying and failing to derive a solution, but there was none. The sacrifice of one life for the chance of saving the other, neither of which would be at risk if I hadn’t made the choice to save myself. Rightly or wrongly, that was the worst part of it: that all of our woe had resulted from my fear, from my will to endure, my desire for love. From my selfish wish to have a life worth living. I’d gotten exactly what I wanted, but the cost… the cost was beyond what I’d ever imagined. And it need not have been, if only I hadn’t fallen prey to my father’s trickery, because I could have had nearly all those things without risking anyone other than myself. And Marc wouldn’t be on his way to a meeting where he’d give up a role I knew he cherished more than he ever admitted.
Depression dragged me into the darkest corners of my mind, visions of all the many ways our situation would play out circulating through my thoughts. Down and down, and with them came a regret that was crippling. And no matter how hard I fought it, unrelenting.
Which meant I had to do something.
* * *
Other than the time I’d spent in the galleries, I’d only on the very rarest of occasions visited the royal library, my leisure time dedicated to my art rather than to reading. Sadly, that left me woefully unequipped to navigate the enormous structure with anything resembling expedience, so I went in search of one of the multiple librarians employed by the crown.
I found one bent over an ancient-looking tome, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper as though his life depended on it. He was so deeply embroiled with his work that though I stood almost next to him for several moments, he did not notice my presence until I gave a soft cough.
He started upright, stool going sideways to clatter against the marble floor, pot of ink splattering in every direction, including all over the pages of the manuscript. He stared in undisguised horror at the stained pages until I stepped closer, using my magic to lift the ink from the paper, returning the tiny droplets to their pot.
“Incredible,” he said, touching the pristine pages. “The level of focus…”
I shrugged. “I learned as a child to clean up my messes or face the consequences.”
He finally seemed to realize who precisely he was speaking to, collapsing into an awkward bow that knocked him against the table, nearly sending the ink toppling once more. “My apologies, my lady. I did not realize…”
I waved away his panic. “It’s of no matter – well I know what it’s like to lose oneself in one’s work.”
“Of course.” He bobbed another bow. “We have several pieces of your work here, including your portrait of Her Majesty, which–”
On any other day, I’d be willing to discuss artwork for hours, but not today, so I interrupted. “What is your name, sir?”
“Martin, my lady. Fifth librarian.”
He couldn’t have been any older than I was, only just having completed his guild training, though he must have scored high to earn a placement here. “Martin, I require some assistance in my research, if you are willing.”
“Of course.” He bowed again. “On which topic?”
“Bonding.”
He led me through the towering shelves of books with the confidence of one who all but lives among them, stopping next to one, the crystal sconces in close proximity brightening to reveal the titles. Extracting two volumes, he held them out. “These are particularly well done.”
Opening one, I took in the pages of drawings of intricate bonding marks, all labeled with the names and titles of those who bore them. Some brilliant silver. Some greying with a mate’s illness.
Some black.
“Every bonding mark is unique,” Martin said, seeming to misinterpret my silence as I stared at the blackened marks of a woman who’d survived her husband’s death some two hundred years past, the image filling me with both terror and hope.
Handing back the volumes, I said, “I’m rather more interested in the nature of the magic. Whether–” I swallowed hard “–whether there is anything about the chances of surviving the death of a spouse.”