I woke with a start in the blackness, the feel of the sheets and the scent of the air disorienting until I created a light, and Marc’s bedroom materialized around me. But the familiarity of his belongings brought me no comfort, a deep sense of unease weighing upon my mind, implacable and unshakeable, because it was not my own.
“Marc,” I murmured, then reached for the silken nightdress that lay next to the bed, the fabric cool as I pulled it over my head. He was not here, nor in the home, but it felt like I could walk toward him with the unerring precision of one holding a compass finding their way north. Though unnecessary, because wherever he had been, he was coming in this direction.
Not wherever, I thought, glancing at the clock. At the palace. The King had asked to see him first thing about his punishment, and while I was certain no physical harm had been delivered upon him, something else had. A million thoughts raced through my mind about what possible penance His Majesty might have demanded. That our bonding would be undone, though I knew this was impossible. That I’d be returned to my father, and that the most terrifying and glorious night of my life would be reduced to a reminder of what I’d lost, for however long my father allowed me to live.
“It cannot be undone,” I told myself, gulping down a glass of water to wash away the sourness rising up my throat. “They can’t take him away from you.”
But on the heels of my own reassurances came the thought that Marc was coming to regret his decision. That his unease was not from the King’s punishment, but rather the costs he must bear for bonding me against the will of everyone. No one was pleased about this union: not his parents, nor my sister, and most especially not Tristan. No one could break our bond and take him away from me, but having to live with his resentment, growing day after day, would be worse.
“Stop it,” I whispered. “Quit imagining trouble when you have more than enough as it is.”
Except there was an insidiousness to having another’s feelings in one’s head, knowing that they were real but unknowing of the cause, and try as I might, I couldn’t cage the thoughts away.
A knock sounded at the door, and I jumped. “Yes?”
A servant appeared, a gown I didn’t recognize draped across her arms. “Good morning, my lady,” she said. “Lord Marc asked that you not be disturbed, but you have a visitor waiting for you downstairs.”
“A visitor?” It could be the twins or my sister, but my skin prickled with the sense that it was someone else.
“Yes, my lady.” The woman’s jaw tightened. “His Grace, the Duke d’Angoulême.”
My father.
I forced food down my throat while the servants laced me into the gown and fixed my hair, but my stomach was flipping with such regularity that I wondered if doing so had been a mistake. The last thing I needed was to vomit on my father’s shoes.
My heels silent on the carpets, I followed the sense of power down to the parlor. Marc’s mother sat stiffly on a sofa, her husband hovering next to her arm. Across from them, and looking entirely at ease, sat my father, cane polished to a high shine and resting across his knees.
“Pénélope,” he exclaimed at the sight of me, leaping to his feet and crossing the room. Marc’s mother rose with equal speed, her hands balling into fists. There was no chance my father hadn’t noticed, but he showed no reaction as he kissed both my cheeks. “Already we feel your absence at home, darling.”
My heart was fluttering like a caged bird, my skin crawling where he gripped my arms. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I would’ve given you time to settle in, but I found that I couldn’t bear the idea of missing your reaction to the delivery of your trousseau.”
“My trousseau.”
“Yes, yes!” He dropped my arms and gestured to the corner of the room where at least half a dozen polished chests sat in orderly rows. “I’ve had your art supplies brought over as well; they are in the room that the Comte has kindly allocated for your use.”
“Art supplies,” I repeated, staring at the chests, knowing I sounded like a fool repeating his words, but he might as well have been speaking a foreign language for how much sense they made to me.
“But of course! What sort of father would I be to deprive you of your passion?”
The sort of father who’d have his daughter murdered.
“Go, look. Please! Your grandmother made the selections herself, and I assure you, she spared no expense.”
I lurched in the direction of the chests, my feet feeling heavy as bricks. Half expecting to be incinerated, I cautiously touched one of them, but the wood was smooth and cool beneath my fingers.
“Perhaps you might play for us on this joyous occasion, my lady.”
My father’s words made no sense to me, but when I turned my head, I realized they’d been directed at Marc’s mother.
“Not today,” the Comtesse replied. Her voice was steady, but the trembling orb of light above her betrayed her fear.
“Shame.” My father’s smile was all teeth. “I well remember the days when you used to entertain at parties, though it seems a lifetime ago. Such a beautiful thing to possess.” His eyes shifted to Marc’s father. “The gift of music.”
The Comte’s face gleamed with fury, because that wasn’t at all what my father had meant. But as Duke, my father outranked him, so the Comte could say nothing. How many lives have my family raked their claws across? I wondered. How many have suffered, how many have died, because of us?
“Aren’t you going to look, Pénélope?”
His attention had shifted back to me, and I let my hair fall into my face as I reached for the latch on the chest, unwilling to let him see my fear. Half expecting snakes or worse to leap out at me, I flipped the lid, the contents within glittering in a rainbow of colors beneath my light.
Jewels.
All new. All worth a small fortune, and all suitable for the head of a household, not a teenage girl. I picked up a pair of diamond earrings that would reach nearly to my shoulders, the gems winking as though they were laughing. The next three chests were full of gowns made of costly imported fabrics, many marked by the names of famous human designers. Then one full of undergarments quite unlike anything I’d previously worn. The last was full of small jars of pigment. Picking up one, I stared at the label, knowing that this chest of rare, brilliant hues was worth more than all the rest combined.
“It is important to pursue one’s passions.” He’d come up close without me realizing, his breath smelling faintly of mint. I shivered, placing the jar back with the rest with a tiny clink.
“Do you think all of this will undo the fact you tried to have me killed?” I whispered. “Do you believe my forgiveness can be purchased?”
“No,” he replied. “I don’t. Sometimes, one’s emotions get the better of them. But it would’ve been a tragedy and a mistake if Lessa had taken your light from us.”
“Lessa?” I was shaking, the jars of precious color rattling under my hand. “Does she do anything you don’t want her to?”
He chuckled softly. “Does anyone?”
And there it was. As though a trousseau full of items that would have taken weeks, if not longer, to procure were not enough, the statement was all but an admission that Marc and me bonding was no act of defiance. At least, not toward my father. He’d wanted us to do it. Lessa trying to kill me had been nothing but a ruse intended to make us desperate enough to take that leap, and the realization carved out my insides as thoroughly as a knife.
The door to the parlor slammed open.
Marc stood in the doorway, breathing hard. “Get away from her.”
As if Marc hadn’t spoken, my father said, “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.” Flipping the lid of the chest closed, he strolled over to Marc, his cane making soft thuds against the floor. Marc’s hand lifted as though he might strike, and I lunged at them, desperate to stop the altercation before it began. But my father only clapped a hand against Marc’s shoulder.
“I must commend you,” he said. “Honor is a rare thing in our kind, but you, young man, possess it in a quantity beyond my wildest dreams. Most in your position would have left my poor daughter alone to bear an illegitimate child, but you…”
With his cane, he gestured at the Comte. “What a son you’ve raised, my lord. What incredible bravery he must possess to take such a risk for the girl he loves.”
“I have always been proud of my son,” the Comte said. “That will never change.”
“To be sure.” My father sighed, then reached out to cup my cheek as though I were the most precious of things, then inclined his head to Marc. “I really must thank you. I confess, my behavior of late has not been particularly… fatherly, but you’ve done everything in your power to protect my little girl.”
The sincerity in his tone was sickening, and I stepped out of his grip.
“Yesterday was… If I had lost her like that, I’m not sure I could ever have forgiven the mistake.” Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a card embossed with red and gold and handed it to Marc. “Consider this a display of my eternal gratitude for the brave and noble choice you made.”
Then he left without another word.
No one spoke, but the room smelled faintly sour with too much magic and even more trepidation. My knees shook as I took them in: the young man I loved and his family, who were nothing but kind to me. To everyone. And as payment, I had put them in my father’s sights. Put, I was certain, their very lives in danger.
“I’m so sorry.” My knees failed me and I dropped to the carpet. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
It was a mistake that could not be undone.