The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(8)
Her skirts rustled as she came to stand between me and the tree. Even with her cosmetics smeared and her hair in disarray, she was the most beautiful girl in Trollus. Reaching up with one hand, she pushed back the hood of my cloak, and I instantly turned my head so she would see me only in profile. But she caught my chin with her slender fingers and pulled it back.
“I painted you as you are, because I love you as you are,” she said. Before I could say a word, she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed me. And was gone so quickly that I wondered if I was a fool lost in a dream after all.
Chapter Three
Pénélope
I walked swiftly through the streets, one hand pressed to my lips, my heart racing, and my mind scarcely capable of comprehending what I’d just done.
I’d kissed Marc.
And in doing so, I’d broken one of the rules my father had forced me to live by: thou shalt not court intimacy. But what did my father’s rules even matter anymore? Marc’s words had rung through me and shattered enough of the walls containing my spirit that I was finally able to see that I might have a chance at life. My secret was out. The damage had been done. And though I hated the idea that I might profit from my sister’s downfall, I could not help but reach greedily for that which had been denied me for so long.
I loved Marc. I could scarce remember a time when I hadn’t loved him, for a kinder, more compassionate boy I’d never met. It wasn’t that I was blind and didn’t see how iron and the curse’s confinement had afflicted him – I did. But whereas others turned their faces and grimaced at the sight of him, I was always struck at how extraordinary it was that he who fate had treated with such cruelty managed to be so wholly good. Because good was a rare trait in our world.
I only wished I knew if he felt the same way about me.
And though I had no reason to believe that he did, I couldn’t help but let my imagination run wild with visions of a future with him. Bonding wouldn’t be possible, that much I knew. The crown possessed the only source of the magic required for the ceremony, which meant matches only occurred when the King approved them. Given he’d refused to allow Tristan to bond Ana?s after finding out my secret, he’d certainly refuse to allow his nephew to tie his life to mine. But that didn’t mean Marc and I couldn’t be together. Given who I was, no one would even bat an eye at the break in tradition.
My family did not bond.
Ana?s would have been the first in two thousand years. My father had pretended to agree to the concession in order to gain the wardship of Prince Roland, but I knew it was because the bond ensured their union could not be undone if I was discovered. But given the secrecy surrounding the union, and given the nature of my illness, no one would be surprised at all if I didn’t bond my husband.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t wish it could be otherwise.
Lost in my daydreams, I nodded to the guards at the gates to our property and went up the glass and marble mosaic of tiles leading to my home. The golden doors swung open on their oiled hinges, and I closed them softly behind me, not wanting to invite the attention of my father or grandmother if either of them were home.
“Your maid returned some time ago with your artwork, my lady. I had her put everything in your studio.”
I jumped, turning to find Lessa standing next to the base of the grand staircase at the center of the foyer. The King’s bastard half-blood daughter smiled sweetly and curtsied, and as always, the gesture felt like mockery. She was required to wear grey, but her silk dress was elaborate enough to be called a gown, the red sash marking her as the property of our house trimmed with garnets of the same hue. She was the prize jewel of my grandmother’s possessions, and a hundred times more powerful than I. Demanding deference from her verged on absurdity, and we both knew it. “Thank you. Is Ana?s returned?”
Lessa shook her head, the gleam in her eye making me nervous. She bore a strong resemblance to Tristan, but for reasons I could not explain, she reminded me very much of her younger half-brother, the mad Prince Roland. “I’d like a bath before I dress for dinner, if you would,” I said.
The corner of her mouth turned up. “Of course. I’ll arrange for it to be ready after His Grace is finished with you.”
A slick of sweat broke out on my palms. “He wishes to speak to me?”
“He’s waiting for you in the parlor.”
I nodded, straightened my dress, and paused in front of a mirror long enough to wipe away my smeared cosmetics. Then I went in.
My father stood before a large portrait I’d painted of my mother, his back to me. She’d died in a sluag attack, and I sometimes wondered why he bothered to keep the painting, for he’d shown almost no remorse at her passing.
“Father.” I curtseyed deeply, holding the position until he turned.
“Pénélope.” His tone was light, but my skin prickled with the feel of magic fueled by anger, and dread seeped into my heart.
Coming over, he pulled me into an embrace, his chin resting next to my ear. “You were always my better daughter. Sweet. Charming. Obedient. If I could’ve given you all your sister’s attributes and retained your personality, what a magnificent tool you would’ve been. But rarely do power and tractability walk hand in hand.” He squeezed me tighter. Enough that it hurt. “Why did you have to change?”