The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(4)
My eyes took in the whirl of motion, envisioning how I might capture it with paint, but my hands almost instinctively reached for my pencil and sketchbook, because nothing else would ever capture my sister’s exquisite beauty and strength better than crisp lines of black against a plane of white. Ana?s needed no embellishments, and that’s all color would be.
She feinted left but struck right, her blow landing square against her opponent’s side with an audible crack. Tristan swore and stumbled, his gloved hand pressing against ribs that were almost certainly fractured.
I swallowed hard, trying my best not to think of the bones knitting and reforming, bruises rising and fading within seconds. Or to think about what happened when they did not.
“I can’t recall the last time I bested you at this, Ana?s,” Tristan grumbled, hand dropping from his side. “It’s not very sporting if I’ve no chance at winning. My pleasure in your company is diminished by the broken bones.”
Ana?s smiled and slapped the flat of her blade against the palm of her gloved hand. “Are you suggesting that I let you win, Your Highness?”
“Would that be so dreadful?” He closed the distance between them, his cheeks curving with a smile as he gazed down at her.
For a handful of seconds, her face was filled with the naked adoration of a girl well and truly in love. And my heart broke, the sharp little pieces digging into my soul as I watched her bury the feelings behind a cocky smile, the tip of her blade flicking up to catch him beneath the chin.
“Yes, it would. If you wish to beat me, you’ll merely have to try harder.”
The two stood silent and unmoving, and I knew that a conversation passed between them in the wordless language of those who knew each other well. It was beautiful and wretched, and my eyes moved without thought to the image on my canvas.
“Enough banter.” Marc stepped out of the shadows where he’d been leaning against the wall, nudging the sword he held into both their ribs, driving them apart. “Tristan, I saw Ana?s’s feint plain as day, and you would have, too, if you’d been paying attention.”
My heart beat faster in my chest as he walked between them in my direction. Then he stopped, knocking a fist against an invisible barrier of magic blocking his path. “Ana?s, let me through.”
She blanched. “Oh. Sorry, Marc. I–” Breaking off, her gaze went to mine, then away.
My stomach clenched. Bad enough that she’d been protecting me, but worse that she hadn’t wanted me to know she was doing it.
The guilt on Ana?s’s face. The pity on Tristan’s. I hated both sentiments, but the last thing I wanted was to make my sister feel worse, so I said nothing. Dipping my brush in a pale grey, I turned back to my work, hoping my expression wouldn’t betray me.
Marc stopped in front of my easel, and though I did not take my attention away from my brushstrokes, I felt his presence keenly. My skin prickled and I was sure that even if I had been blind and deaf, I would still have known it was him standing beside me.
“She’s only trying to protect you, Pénélope.”
“And she is wise for it.” I added a touch more black to my grey. “Perhaps if she’d always been so vigilant, circumstances would be different.”
The truth always outs… My father might not have cared to believe it so, but there had always been a certain inevitability of my secret – my affliction – being discovered. If only it had delayed its happening, its discovery might not have even mattered. Certain things could not be undone. Like the bonding of two trolls.
“But she was not, and they are not,” he said. “And Ana?s blames herself for what happened. It was her blade that shattered.”
“And his that broke it,” I hissed, furious that my sister should feel guilt when Tristan did not.
“Do you think he doesn’t know that?”
I lowered my brush, not wanting to touch this particular piece with anger in my heart. “Can we please not discuss it? Already it weighs upon every aspect of my life, and I hoped to find some respite from it here.”
“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.