The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(64)

“She was extraordinarily talented,” he continued. “She caught the eye of many for that reason alone, and yet she chose him.”

“She loved him,” I said, careful to keep my emotions in check. “Besides, her death was your doing, Father.”

“I didn’t kill the Comte. He fell on his own proverbial sword and took her to the grave along with him.” Shifting on his stool, my father caught my gaze. “All that talent and grace snuffed out in an instant for love. I wonder if in those moments when her heart stuttered, but before her light went out, if she loved him still. Or if she hated him for stealing away her future.”

I did not respond. His meaning was clear enough. Hurtful enough.

“But it’s of no matter.”

I sincerely doubted that. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t a father visit his daughter to see how she fares in her new life?” He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Though I see for myself that you are faring well – far better than anyone, including me, anticipated. Married life must suit you.”

“It does.” I wanted to get up, to move. To run, even. Because all his little comments were dovetailing toward something. And that something wouldn’t be good. “Does that disappoint you?”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The truth is, Pénélope, that I came here today to tell you how very proud of you I am.”

My breath caught in my chest, all thoughts, all words, escaping me. Because the things he valued… I wanted no part of them.

“Everyone believes Ana?s is my golden child: powerful, beautiful, and ambitious. But she has not accomplished half of what you’ve done for this family. For me.”

No.

“Despite all the marks against you, here you sit: bonded to the young Comte who is nephew of the King, who is master of all that comes and goes from Trollus, who is cousin and confidant of the heir, and above all, who is the stalking horse for the true leader of the half-bloods’ revolution.”

Don’t react. Don’t say anything.

He patted my cheek. “I see you’ve finally learned to play the game, dearest. But it’s too late. His father’s sacrifice might have denied me proof, but I know Marc is heading those meetings, and I know that standing behind him in the shadows is Prince Tristan himself.”

Picking up my brush, I set to cleaning off the paint and storing my tools away. “Fascinating theories, Father. Yet for someone with such great certainty, you seem to be doing little about it.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” he said. “Because you’re going to do it for me.”

My pulse roared in my ears, my heart threatening to tear out of my chest. “And what exactly is it that you believe I’m going to do for you?”

“You’re going to kill Marc Biron, Comte de Courville, for me.”

The room faded in and out of focus, and I gripped the sides of my stool to keep from toppling over.

“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll even manage to live long enough to bring this delightful child into the world. But we all know you’ll never survive to raise it. The babe will kill you. And you, my beloved daughter, will kill him.” He cackled with undisguised mirth, and the jars of paint sitting on the table all cracked as my magic sought an outlet.

“Is that why you had the library purged?” I demanded, hoping the accusation would elicit some clue that there had been something there. Maybe not a cure, but something that would allow me to survive. Something I could hunt down now that I knew it existed. “Was there something in those pages that could help me?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, along with something else. Fear. But it was gone in an instant. “There was nothing in those books that could cure you, Pénélope. There is nothing that can save you. Do you think I didn’t look?”

And he could not lie.

My hope shattered into a million pieces, tearing through my insides on the flood of my too-fast pulse. “You can’t know that.” They were weak words. A pathetic defense. And that, more than anything he’d said, made me lunge for him, the dagger in my pocket aimed at his throat.

But magic caught me and I hung suspended in the air, thrashing and struggling, until I finally tried to throw the blade at him in desperation. It only bounced off a shield of magic, clattering to the floor.

“Pénélope, Pénélope.”

I tried to scream, praying one of the servants would come even as I hoped that they’d stay hidden, because he wouldn’t hesitate to kill them.

“You are the poisoned cup. The knife in the dark. The pillow pressed against a sleeping man’s mouth.” The room trembled with his laughter, though his gaze was cold and dead as a snake’s. “You are the trump card that no one knew I had.”

My feet touched the ground, and I caught myself against the table as my ankle rolled.

“And once Marc is dead, Tristan will have no choice but to step out of the safety of the shadows to take the reins of his little revolution, and then it’s only a matter of time until the proof of his treason is mine. Until the throne is mine and the Montigny line is no more.” Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door, cane thump thumping against the ground. “Congratulations, Pénélope. It seems you are a true Angoulême after all.”