Stolen Songbird(58)

Abruptly, Tristan began to laugh. “I suppose,” he said, after his fit of laughter subsided, “that you aren’t wasting your time after all.” He gestured at the wide-eyed trolls hiding in the shadowed corners. “Get back to it, then.”

He spun on his heel and left the studio without another word.

“Are you well, my lady?” One of the trolls came forward, touching my arm. I realized that I was trembling then, my breath coming in little hiccupy gasps.

“Yes. No.” I pressed a hand against my stomach and took several deep breaths. “Please have my painting framed and delivered to me at the palace.”

Ignoring her slack-jawed look of horror, I hurried out of the studio, my guards following at my heels.





The painting was waiting for me when I returned to my rooms late that evening after a rousing game of three-legged tennis with the twins. Sweaty and more than a little disheveled, I stood staring at the silk wrapped package sitting on Tristan’s desk, wondering if I had made a mistake by having it brought here.



The door swung open, and Tristan strode into the room. As it shut behind him, the sound of the waterfall disappeared and a faint haze appeared, obscuring the walls from view.

“Hungry?” Without waiting for my answer, he tossed an apple in my direction. I snagged it out of the air without thinking.

“Nice catch. Influence of your older brother?”

I nodded warily. “What do you know about my brother?”

Tristan took a bite of the other apple he was holding, chewing and swallowing before answering. “Frédéric de Troyes. Nineteen years old, brown hair and blue eyes. He is second-lieutenant in that imposter-you-call-a-regent’s standing army. He is rumored to be an excellent shot with a pistol. He is also known to have a particular fondness for strong drink and tavern wenches, the combination of which is likely to yield several illegitimate children, if it has not already.”

I set the apple down. “How do you know all this?” It was true, but it was not how I knew my brother. The Fred I knew was a boy who took his younger sister hunting and on weeklong treks through the wilderness. Who never treated her like she was incapable just because she was a girl. To see my brother reduced to a womanizing drunk troubled me.

“Spies,” Tristan replied. “I sent dozens of them out to learn what they could about your life and family after your friend Luc delivered you to us.”

“He isn’t my friend,” I said coldly, hating the idea of a bunch of strangers spying on my family.

“I suppose not,” Tristan said, tossing his apple core onto a tray.

A thought occurred to me. “Are they still watching them? Your spies?”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly – I might not have noticed if it were not for the tension growing in my mind. “Yes.”

“And?” It was hard to ask the question, because I knew whatever he said would hurt.

“Most of the town has given up hope you will ever be found alive,” he said, gesturing for me to take a seat and waiting until I did before he settled across from me. “They think you fell victim to a bear or mountain cat. But your father and brother continue to search, as does the innkeeper’s daughter, Sabine. She refuses to hear any talk that you might be dead – has ridden out every day to look for you.”

“But she’s terrified of horses,” I managed to choke out between my fingers. “She never rides.”

“Then I suppose that she chooses to do so now is a testament of her devotion to you,” Tristan said quietly.

It was too much – it was bad enough missing them as much as I did, but bearing the burden of their grief as well? I broke down into heavy gasping sobs, tears running down to soak my skirts until Tristan handed me a handkerchief. It was the only move he made. He offered no comfort or words; only assumed that strange preternatural stillness that reminded me of how different we were.

“I should not have told you,” he said when my tears subsided.

“No,” I said, hugging my arms around my body. “Thank you for telling me. I want to know. Need to know.” I paused, searching my mind for the words to convey what I was feeling. I looked at him in mute appeal.

“I know how you feel,” he said, and then shook his head, rejecting the statement. “I feel how you feel.” His voice was raw.

Having him admit it was oddly comforting. “It’s just that I hate knowing that they’re suffering and there’s nothing I can do about it,” I said. “If only I could send them word…”