Stolen Songbird(14)

Ahead of the procession, I heard the tinkling laugh of a girl and the sound of a door slamming against a wall.

“His Majesty, the King!” the two-headed troll guard announced.

Afraid, I squeezed my eyes shut. When I finally found the nerve to open them, I hovered in a room richly decorated with tapestries and thick carpets. At its center stood a table and two high-backed chairs. Above the table floated half a dozen boards littered with tiny figurines. A young woman stood next to a chair, her face lowered and knees bent into a deep curtsy. Little of who sat in the other seat was visible to me, for his back was to us: only the bend of a black-clad elbow, the curve of a pale-skinned hand resting on the arm of the chair.

My head swam and I gasped for air, having unconsciously been holding my breath. The girl rose, and her eyes latched onto me. She was beautiful, for an instant, and then her expression twisted with rage. The game boards fell to the table with a clatter. I jerked my gaze away from hers, fixing it instead on the tiny figures spilled across the carpet.

“You can’t be serious?” she hissed. “Her? This, this thing?”

The Duchesse spoke. “Leave us, Ana?s.”

She didn’t move.

“Now, Ana?s. This is no business of yours.”

The girl remained fixed on the spot, jaw clenched in obvious anger.

“Ana?s.” The King spoke softly, but the girl reacted to the sound of her name as though she’d been slapped, recoiling backward. I watched in amazement as a red, hand-shaped mark rose briefly on her cheek, then faded away. Eyes filled with real terror, the troll girl cowered in front of us.

“Get. Out.”

“Your Majesties. Your Grace,” the girl whispered as she bolted out of the rooms. If the thick carpets managed to muffle the hurried thump of her heeled shoes, they did nothing to hide the slam of the door shutting behind us.

The King cleared his throat. “Tristan, we have the human.”

The Prince said nothing at first, but the boards rose once again into the air, invisible fingers plucking the pieces off the carpet, pausing in consideration, and then returning them to their places on the board. “We’d been at this round for nigh on three months now.”

His voice was quiet, marked with the faint accent all the trolls had, and showed no concern for the female companion his father had just slapped. I shuddered, wishing he would turn around and, at the same time, hoping he wouldn’t.

“I’m certain Ana?s will regret dropping the game,” the King said.

The Prince laughed softly, but he didn’t sound the least bit amused to me. “Unlikely, given that she was losing. She hates to lose.”

The King frowned. “Tristan, I thought you’d want to have a look at the girl before we…” he glanced over at me, “finalized the contract.”

The Prince’s hand flexed, fingers digging ever so slightly into the upholstery. I might not even have noticed if not for the fact my eyes had been fixated on that one glimpse of flesh, trying to judge his proportion and failing mightily.

“Why?” The irritation in his voice cut across the room. “My opinion of this venture has counted for nothing up to this point.”

“Well, it matters now,” the King snapped. “Look at her. Decide.”

The Prince didn’t move. “And if I say no?”

“Then we’ll procure another.”

“And if I don’t like her,” the Prince asked, “will you procure another? Will you empty your vaults searching for a human girl who meets the criteria and whom I find tolerable? Will the river run red with the blood of my discards?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “This one will do as well as any.”

He rose suddenly from the chair, and before I had the chance to take a breath, he turned. All my preparations were for naught, for despite the magic gagging me, I still managed to gasp aloud.

He was nothing like what I’d expected.





CHAPTER 5





CéCILE





Prince Tristan was tall and lean, and a fierce intellect gleamed in his silver troll eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than I was – that is, if trolls aged the same way humans do. Dressed impeccably, he wore a black frock coat with a single-breasted vest and fine linen shirt beneath. Black breeches were tucked into black riding boots that I doubted had ever seen the sides of a horse.



He also had the most exquisite face of any boy I’d ever seen. Inky black hair, sculpted cheekbones and jaw, and a full but unsmiling mouth. He looked like Prince Charming from the fairytales, except for one thing: Prince Charming was human, and the boy standing in front of me was decidedly not. His pale skin was too flawless, his motions too smooth and controlled. My skin prickled with a sense of wrongness.