The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(54)

“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?”