The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(19)
With the exception of the end.
I’d almost kissed Marc beneath the glowing willows of the glass gardens – a moment so perfect that it was the stuff of which stories were written. Then the clocks in the palace had chimed the midnight hour, reminding me of my purpose, and the brilliance of the evening had come crashing down around me as my predicament was remembered.
It had seemed, in that heartbeat, a fell thing to allow his lips to touch mine with my motivations as murky as they were. It would be a betrayal and one, if discovered, that Marc would take harder than most. To describe him as fragile would be a fallacy, for he was not. Yet I knew better than most that his appearance made him feel unworthy of another’s desire, and if he were to learn of my father’s involvement, he’d believe every word and action on my part were motivated by self-preservation rather than a product of the sentiment in my heart. I would not do that to him.
So instead I’d ransacked the moment, asking about Tristan in a desperate attempt to redeem my purpose, rendering both of us uncomfortable and me without a damnable thing to report back to my father. And so the dream now descended into a nightmare as I walked up to the door, because there would be consequences to my failure.
There always were.
At first, the house was quiet, and I breathed a breath of hope that Ana?s was out with Tristan or the twins and my father was caught up in the salon of some other lord or lady.
Then I heard the screams.
As always, they came from deep in the lower level, a place of blackness and horror to which I never, ever ventured. Roland at play with whatever half-blood or human had been drummed up for the purpose of indulging the young prince’s violent proclivities. For appeasing him and winning him over to our side.
Our side.
I cringed, hurrying across the foyer, but before I reached the stairs, footsteps and the clack clack of my father’s cane against the marble filled my ears.
“Pénélope.”
Taking a deep breath, I turned. My father stood next to the table in the center of the room, the crystal lamp atop it casting shadows on his face as he dabbed at the droplets of scarlet splattered across his skin with a silken handkerchief. And not for the first time, I wondered how much of the horror that went on below was not for Roland’s amusement, but for my father’s.
“Did you enjoy your evening?”
My tongue felt thick in my mouth. “Yes.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He tossed the stained silk on the table. “I purchased some chocolates made by the confectioner in Trianon that you are so fond of. They are in your room.”
“Chocolates.”
He smiled. “Rest well, darling.” Then he turned and disappeared back down into the hell below.
* * *
I didn’t sleep a wink. It would not have been an exaggeration to say that I didn’t close my eyes longer than it took to blink, so afraid was I that my father was merely waiting for my guard to drop in order to strike and glean what information he could from my mind. But the doors to my chambers didn’t open until morning, Lessa flinging them wide, every lamp in my bedroom burning bright with her magic and leaving my eyes stinging. She had a pale pink gown draped over one arm and a cruel-looking corset in her free hand. Without a word, she tossed the garments on the bed, then went into the bathing room, a rush of steam and the sound of running water following her back out again.
“Well,” she demanded. “Are you going to get out of bed or do I have to drag you out by your heels?”
“I wasn’t aware I had any pressing engagements,” I replied acidly, pulling off my nightdress and tossing it on the floor.
“He wants you ready and out the door within the hour.”
There was only one he in this house, but I asked, “Why? Where am I going?”
Lessa shrugged, though whether it was because she was unable or unwilling to divulge any answers, I couldn’t tell.
The water was uncomfortably hot, but I refused to flinch as I stepped in, submitting to having my body scrubbed and my hair washed, Lessa using magic rather than her own hands for the task like she was supposed to. Steam rose from my hair as she dried it, looping curls forming one after another even as she deftly applied cosmetics to my face, her own remaining sour the entire time. She’d always been cool toward me, but since my affliction was revealed, she’d been outright nasty, with seemingly no fear of ramifications.
And I didn’t understand why. Of all the members of my family, I was the kindest and most sympathetic to our servants – even to her. Before, I would’ve been too nervous to call out her behavior, but now… “Why do you hate me so much?”
Her eyes focused on mine, bold and not the least bit subservient. “Because you are pathetic.”
I lifted one eyebrow. “At best, that is a trait worthy of pity; at worst, disgust; but hate seems extreme.”
She snorted, turning me and starting on the laces of the corset before saying, “In Trollus, power is supposed to be king, yet you are proof that blood is the true ruler. You are weak, in magic and in body, and yet I’m expected to kneel before you because one of my ancestors four generations past was human. Despite the fact that I could crush you like a worm, you are served and granted nearly every liberty, while I am property.”
“There is another word for the emotion you describe,” I replied, grinding my teeth together as my ribs compressed. “And none of that is my doing. I didn’t write the laws. Better to direct your hate at the system.”