The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(63)
My cousin only crossed his arms. “No.”
Not that his defiance mattered. The King’s magic clamped down on me, and he said, “If the Duke killed your father, he will be sentenced and executed for it. Not before. And not by you.”
Which meant there would be no justice, because Angoulême hadn’t killed my father. At least, not directly. My father had burned out his magic, taking my mother along with him. All to protect me.
“You will answer for what happened here, Angoulême,” the King said, turning to the stairs. “And you’ll answer for it now.”
The Duke’s fist gripped the handle of his cane, eyes blank and unreadable. There was not so much as a speck of dust on him, the magic he perpetually coated himself in having protected him from the blast. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
He turned to follow the King, but not before pointing one finger at me. Quietly enough that only I heard, he said, “This is not where it ends, boy.”
I heard the threat.
This was not the last thing he’d take from me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pénélope
Shifting on my stool, I examined the canvas with a critical eye before reaching for my box of pigments to mix a paint the exact shade of blue of the sapphire earrings Marc’s mother had habitually worn. The very same pair that were now sitting on a piece of black velvet on the table to my left.
It needed to be perfect.
The Comtesse, seated at her piano, while the Comte looked on, entranced and deeply in love with his talented wife. It was so clear in my mind’s eye: a scene I’d seen often during my time in their home; but while replicating the image was no challenge, capturing the depth of the sentiment between the pair had thus far eluded me. And without it, the piece was worthless.
And I needed it to be perfect.
It had been two weeks since the pair had died. Two weeks since a blast of magic had torn apart a tavern in the Dregs, killing several half-bloods and leaving my father and his followers standing in a ruin of stone, Marc’s father dead at their feet. The King had questioned my father hard, but all he’d been able to accuse the Comte of was meeting with a group of half-bloods, which was no crime. Those half-bloods who hadn’t been killed had somehow managed to escape and, of course, none had come forward to explain the nature of the meeting.
Still, rumors had swirled that the Comte had been the leader of the sympathizer revolution and had sacrificed his life to protect the cause. But there was no proof, and as the days passed, the chatter and speculation diminished, the King seeming content to let the matter rest.
Marc had told me little about what had happened, and I hadn’t pressed him for the details, his haunted expression and sleepless nights telling me all I needed to know. His father had known what he and Tristan had been up to, and had sacrificed himself in order to protect them.
Stretching my back, I stared up at the skylights of the solar, eyeing the sun glowing yellow and bright, warmth radiating down upon me. Not the real sun, of course, but one of Marc’s creation, wrought with magic and talent. It illuminated the dozens of plants and flowers filling the room with their natural scent and earthiness. They were all grown in hothouses in Trianon, then brought to Trollus with great difficulty, but Marc insisted upon purchasing them. It made him feel better, I thought, to surround me with life, and I absently pressed a hand against the slight curve of my stomach, the presence of magic not my own the greatest comfort of all.
A flicker of motion caught my eye, and I turned my head in time to watch a petal fall from a lily to join the others on the tabletop. Lowering my brush, I stared at the plant, and the others, all slowly dying in the darkness of Trollus, the magic required to keep them alive and thriving lost to iron and mortality.
“An expensive habit.”
My hand twitched, a drop of paint falling to stain the silk of my skirts. My father stood just inside the doorway, gloved hand curved around a dying rose bloom. Though he’d shown me nothing but kindness and courtesy since my bonding, would not, I knew, lay a hand on me given I was bonded to the King’s nephew, trepidation still prickled along my skin. Only a fool would believe he was through with me yet.
Rising to my feet, I curtseyed. “Your Grace.”
“Now, now. None of that.” Crossing the room, he took my elbow and pushed me gently down onto my stool before pulling another next to me and settling onto it, cane balanced across his knees. “Don’t strain yourself on my account, dearest.”
Leaning forward, he silently examined my canvas, a slight furrow forming in his brow. Though I’d never seen him create any art himself, he had a good eye for it, and my work had always been the lone aspect of my person for which he’d shown any paternal pride. “It’s good,” he finally said, “but…” The furrow deepened as he tried to pinpoint what was lacking in the portrait before shrugging and giving up. “It’s a shame.”
“Their deaths, you mean?” I picked at the paint stain with magic, carefully extracting tiny fragments from between the fibers of the silk.
“Hers.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, his focus still on my painting, and I took the opportunity to study him. Both Ana?s and I favored him over our mother with our high cheekbones, squared jaws, and straight noses, and I touched my bottom lip, annoyed that it possessed the same full curve as his did. The only sign of age was a touch of grey at his temples, which did nothing to mar his perfect troll beauty. It was the greatest lie, the greatest deceit. Like the bloom of a poisonous flower or the multihued bands on a venomous snake. Lovely. Deadly.