The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(58)

Tristan went deathly still, and for a heartbeat I thought I’d raised a point that he hadn’t considered. That I’d won my way back into the fold. As though such a thing were even possible.

“Yes,” he said. “Every time I see his smug face I think that we’re playing into his hand. That he’s going to take us down, and that thousands of lives will be lost along with our dream. And you’re–” he jabbed me in the chest “–the one who allowed it to happen.”





Chapter Twenty-Four





Marc





It took over a month to arrange the meeting with Tips, half a dozen attempts forestalled by suspected leaks of information or concern that the Duke and his minions had infiltrated our ranks. Tips and I spent countless hours closeted away in the Dregs debating how best to proceed, and though he accepted I would not reveal the name of the revolution’s true leader until I was ready, the sense of anticipation the miner exuded was as agitating to me as ceaseless questioning would’ve been.

Because I did not want to give up my role as leader.

I knew better than anyone that it had been a false sense of power – that Tristan had always been in control, the plans all his and my task only to implement them. Yet there’d been much to that, because without me, there was no face to our endeavor, no assurance that we had the power to see it through. There would be no revolution. But once Tristan took control, he would so thoroughly fill my shoes that I couldn’t help but believe I’d be all but forgotten. By the half-bloods. By my friends. By history itself. Lost to the shadows in which I hid.

It hurt.

But the longer Tristan’s accusation sat upon my mind, the more I believed that I deserved it.

I’d known when I’d bonded Pénélope that I’d be putting my life at risk, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be risking the lives of anyone else, much less those of every half-blood in Trollus. But now every servant I passed in the hall caused a twinge of guilt to race through me, because I swore I saw accusation in their eyes. Betrayal. Fear. I’d stood before them and painted Tristan’s vision of the future – one in which they would be free of bondage. But more than I’d realized, they’d tied their hope of seeing that future to me. My power. My influence. My ambition. And I’d put Pénélope ahead of all of it. Ahead of them.

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to see that as a mistake.

Out of her father’s house, Pénélope thrived. The haunted expression that had lived on her face for so long was gone, replaced with a levity that made her more lovely than ever. I spent every spare second in her presence, filling the solar where she painted with hothouse flowers from Trianon that I imported at great expense for the pleasure of watching her smile as she inhaled their fragrance. She’d admire them for a heartbeat before promptly inviting students – low and high born – from the Artisans’ Guild to study the precious plants. My home was soon full of artists painting and sculpting and blowing glass into replicas that would be sold back into the world they imitated, but neither me nor my parents begrudged the traffic.

When she wasn’t working in her studio, I’d find her in the room she’d selected for the nursery, quietly painting a mural on one of the walls in brilliant, vibrant colors. From time to time, she’d pause, pressing one hand to her stomach, and I knew she was feeling the baby’s magic. That she loved our child. That she believed she’d be able to bring it into the world. That she’d survive its birth.

She was happy.

In some ways, that was the greatest gift of the bond. That it brought verity to our relationship, forcing us to be truthful about our emotions even if we were not always forthcoming with our thoughts. She was living life the way she’d always dreamed, and I’d given her that chance.

But the truth was a double-edged sword.

“I feel everything I’ve gained has come at your expense,” she said, resting her head on my lap and curling her knees into her chest. My parents had retired hours ago, and the twins had only just left after regaling us with their latest composition. “You aren’t happy.”

“I–”

My tongue froze on the words even as she turned her head to look up, fixing me with a dark frown.

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” I amended.

“That’s not the same,” she said. “And it isn’t good enough. They’re acting like you’re already…”

“Dead,” I finished for her, and because I knew they meant Tristan, I blocked our conversation from any prying ears.

“Yes.”

Her guilt lanced through me, and I let my head fall back until it was resting on the back of the sofa, staring up at the dark ceiling. “He’s being pragmatic, as always. He always plans for the worst. If I die before transitioning the leadership to him, he’ll have a difficult time gaining the half-bloods’ trust, if it can be done at all.”

“There’s a difference between being prepared and being an ass.”

A ghost of a smile turned up the corner of my mouth. “Not in his case. Not in this case.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “This is Ana?s’s influence, I think. If you’d let me talk to him…”

“No.” I straightened. “I don’t want them to know you know.”