Stolen Songbird(107)

When I woke many hours later, it was with a start. Dreams of sluag, darkness, and Tristan dying plagued my sleep. Again and again I’d relived the moment when death sliced through our bond like a scalpel through flesh. The loneliness, as though there was no one left in this world but me. I didn’t know how anyone could survive it; what sort of strength it took to live on after the loss of the one you’d been bound to for years, decades even. I thought about the black lines tracing over Marc’s hands, how he rarely removed the leather gloves hiding them and could not tolerate even the mention of her name.



My light had woken up with me, and it shone dimly as though it were still sleepy. In its glow, I gently traced a fingertip over the golden filigree inked across Tristan’s left hand, more intricate and delicate than the finest lacework. Gold, because I was a child of the sun. The first human to ever be bonded to a troll, much less a troll prince.

Tristan sighed, his breath warm against my cheek. In his sleep, he’d curled around me, his arm tucked tight against my stomach. My perpetually cold feet were warm for once, tucked as they were against his shins. My body complained mightily as I extracted myself from his grip, but despite my attempts not to wake him, his eyes opened.

“You need to rest,” I said. “You’re exhausted.”

“No time for it,” he replied, crossing the room and quickly dressing. “I need to go make reassurances to a few individuals. And there is the tree.”

“Can’t it keep for one day?”

“Possibly, but I’d rather not risk it.” He buckled on his sword. “Don’t leave these rooms unless Marc accompanies you. Certain individuals misunderstand the cause of yesterday’s events, and I don’t want them going after you because of some misguided sense of loyalty.” He kissed my cheek. “Try to stay out of trouble.”





After he left, I tried to find ways to occupy myself in our rooms, but my mind wouldn’t focus. So much had changed in so little time – going back to how things were before I’d fallen for Angoulême’s trickery would be impossible.



Tristan was worried and upset, his uneasiness crawling down my spine like a spider. I wished I knew what was going on. What was he telling the half-bloods? Would they be able to forgive me for what had happened, or had I irreparably damaged my relationship with those who needed our help the most?

Tossing aside the novel I had been trying to read, I went through the doors and out onto the balcony, down the steps to the courtyard where my piano stood. The stack of music sat undisturbed on the bench, and after shuffling through it, I chose a lengthy piece and sat down. I had no great talent – my short fingers prevented that – but I played well within my limitations. I sat at the piano until my fingers ached, but I refused to sing. I would not call him. He would come to me when he was ready.

“You are a talented musician, but I must confess, I prefer to hear you sing.”

The keys jangled harshly beneath my fingers and I froze. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder. The Duke d’Angoulême stood at the base of the stairs, his gold-tipped cane held horizontally between his hands. “Perhaps you’ll sing for me, little bird.”

I shook my head.

“Pity.” He walked towards the piano, and I scrambled to my feet, wanting to keep some distance between us. Not that it would matter. If he’d come here to kill me, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him.

“These are my private gardens,” I said. “You have no right to be here.”

“True.” He ran a finger down the shiny surface of the piano. “But there isn’t much you can do about it, is there?”

“What do you want?”

The corners of his mouth twisted up in a cold parody of a smile. “A great many things, Cécile, and I fully intend to have them.” He picked up the delicate glass rose Tristan had given me, turning it over in his hands. “You caused quite the disturbance yesterday.”

“That was your intention, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed it was, although not in my wildest dreams did I expect it to turn out so well.” He held up my rose as if to smell it, but his eyes were fixed on me. “Did you know that when an infant is born of half troll, half human blood, its magic never reaches half that of its troll parent? And if that child takes up with a human, the resultant child will have almost no magic to speak of. The fact of the matter is, if a child has less than one-eighth troll blood, it has no magic at all. It is as weak and unintelligent as a human, as susceptible to illness and injury.”