The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(56)

“Keep trying,” she said, stoppering a vial of paint. “He’ll come around. He needs you more than you need him, I think.”

“And Ana?s?” I asked, thinking of the cold politeness my friend directed at me whenever she came to visit her sister. “Will she?”

To that, Pénélope made only a noncommittal sound, though the flash of sorrow I felt from her was answer enough. No.

It felt like everyone was angry with me.

Except, perhaps, the Duke d’Angoulême.

He’d spared no expense proving just how pleased he was with me. With us.

Every aristocrat in Trollus had been invited to the celebration, as well as higher-ranking commoners and guild masters, the gates to the Angoulême manor thrown wide, the grounds lit so brilliantly I half wondered if the glow seeped through the rock above. Music filled the air, drowning out the falls, and the Artisans’ Guild filled the sky with vivid displays of color that shifted and changed with every passing minute.

I hated all of it.

Pénélope and I stood outside the front doors, greeting every well-wisher and pretending not to see the pity on nearly every face that passed through. Though the pity was better than the poorly disguised glee on the faces of others.

The Duke was worst of all, working his way through the crowd, all laughter and charm, his mother on his arm.

“Why?” Pénélope muttered. “Why is he so happy about this? What does he think he can gain?”

It was a conversation we’d had countless times over the past week. Yes, there was a rift between me and my cousin, but no one had any reason to believe that was permanent. This was by no means our first argument, and we’d always resolved our differences before. It certainly wasn’t enough to justify the Duke’s glee.

“If he believes I’m going to betray your confidence, he’s sorely mistaken,” she said under her breath. “He no longer has that right. No longer has that power.”

There was heat in her voice. Certainty. But I knew she was reluctant to leave the house unless in the company of me or my parents lest her father or one of his minions should catch her alone and try to force damning information from her lips. I personally thought such a move unlikely, but fear was not always rational.

And there was always the chance she was right.

“I wish you’d let me promise to hold my tongue,” she said, after kissing the cheek of one of her cousins and sending him off in search of a wine her father had brought in at great expense.

I shook my head. Promises were binding and could not be undone. The last thing I wanted was her in a position where she could save herself and our child through some small admission and finding herself unable to.

Trumpets abruptly blared, and everyone outside the manor dropped into deep bows and curtsies, the King and Queen appearing at the gates. His expression was sour, but Queen Matilde lifted a hand in greeting to her subjects, then smiled brightly at me before turning slightly so Aunt Sylvie could peruse the crowd. My attention was not for them, however, but rather on whether anyone followed behind.

Then Tristan appeared.

His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, expression sullen, yet I couldn’t help but feel relief that at least he’d come.

“Your Majesties!” The Duke had appeared at my elbow out of nowhere, bowing far lower than was necessary as the King and Queen approached. “You humble me with your presence at my home.”

“If humbleness was what you sought, I’d have been happy to arrange for it years ago,” the King said, plucking a flute of sparkling wine from a distant tray and downing the contents. Then he eyed me and Pénélope. “You look lovely, my lady. Red suits you.”

The gown of crimson and gold had been sent over by the Duke. Angoulême colors.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Pénélope responded without missing a beat. “We are honored by your presence.”

He grunted, eyes drifting over the crowd. “Where is Roland?”

“Watching the jugglers, I believe,” the Duke responded, but he made no move to escort the King to his son, as he should have. Because his true mark stood a few paces beyond, watching the proceedings with indifference as his father departed through the crowd. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Is it?” Tristan scowled at him.

“édouard!”

The Duke twitched at the use of his given name, my Aunt Sylvie’s voice loud enough to cut through the noise of the party. The Queen instinctively turned so that her sister could have her say. The Duke’s expression soured ever so slightly, but then his smile returned with gusto. “Your Grace.”

“Skip the formalities and start walking,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I want to see this atrium that you’re always bragging about.”

The Duke coughed. “Unfortunately it suffered some damage recently that the guild has not yet had time to adequately repair. Perhaps a tour could be arranged at a later date.”

“Now, édouard,” she said. “And damaged how? I’m sure that’s a fascinating story that I’m dying to hear.”

“Oh yes,” the Queen said. “I would like to see.”

The Duke’s jaw worked back and forth, but he could hardly refuse a request from the Queen herself. The trio departed, but not before my aunt gave me a sly wink.