Stolen Songbird(64)

“You idiot!” shrieked the troll. She rounded on the servant, and I watched in horror as magical blows fell across the woman’s face, blood splattering against the pale grey paving stones.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” the servant begged, cringing against the blows as they fell. Wounds opened and closed on her face, the red gore dripping onto her dress the only permanent mark.

“Stop,” I said, but the troll didn’t hear me. “Stop!” I shouted louder. She glanced my direction, but ignored the command.

In two strides, I was next to her. “I order you to stop this abuse immediately.”

The troll turned her head to look at me, eyes dark and menacing. “You have no right.” She raised her hand to strike another blow, and I moved without thinking. Reaching out both hands, I shoved the troll woman hard.

“Cécile, stop!”

Magic lashed around my waist, jerking me back, and Marc stepped between the troll and me.

“Your Grace,” he said. “I don’t believe you have met Her Highness. May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Cécile de Montigny.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Your Highness, the Lady Damia, Dowager Duchesse d’Angoulême.”

I blinked. The troll was Angoulême’s mother. “Your Grace,” I muttered, and reluctantly curtseyed. This was not a random meeting, I was sure of it.

The woman snorted. “It is a bit late for courtesies, girl.” Grabbing hold of her servant’s hair, she dragged the half-blood away from us.

Marc held up a warning hand to keep me from going after them, but it was unnecessary. I knew the troll was trying to provoke me, but it was still infuriating to stand by and watch her treat the half-blood woman so. There had to be something I could do. I couldn’t just walk away.

“My Lord Comte.” The sound of Damia’s voice jerked me to attention. I could feel tension radiating from Marc as he acknowledged the other troll. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Damia’s eyes glittered. “Make arrangements to have the labyrinth opened this evening. This one’s actions merit disposal.” She jerked her chin towards the half-blood cowering at her feet. “I do not care to have my household’s reputation tarnished by such behavior.”

Marc’s hands tightened into fists. “Surely such an extreme reaction is not warranted.”

“I did not ask for your opinion,” she snapped. “She is my property, and I can do with her as I wish.”

The twins came up on either side of me, but I scarcely noticed. I felt the blood drain from my face and my hands turn cold. How far was she willing to take this? Would she really send her servant into the labyrinth to die just to elicit a reaction from me? Because I was positive now that that was exactly what she was trying to do. She was baiting me in an attempt to get at Tristan. If I went to him appealing for help in saving the half-blood, it would not only undercut the carefully crafted ruse defining our relationship, it would also put him in the position of having to choose between sacrificing the servant’s life or revealing his true sentiments towards half-bloods.

“If you are so eager to get rid of her, I’ll take her off your hands,” Victoria suddenly said. “Five hundred is fair, I think.”

“She isn’t for sale,” Angoulême’s mother snapped.

“A thousand, then.”

“No.”

“If you value her so much, I fail to see why you want to see her killed,” Vincent said, closing a hand over my shoulder. He was warning me not to take the bait, but what would be the consequences of me walking away? Could I stomach the guilt of letting the half-blood go to her death? But what could I possibly do to stop it? The law was clear – the servant was her property to do with as she willed. Only a royal decree from either Tristan or the King could stop her from sending the half-blood to her death. I did not see the King being forthcoming in that regard and asking Tristan would feel like I was passing the problem to him. I had to think of another way.

“Ten thousand.”

Damia shot the twins a look of distain. “She is not for sale to you two for any price. You hardly need another in that menagerie you call a household.”

“Sell her to me,” I blurted out. She could refuse the others – she outranked them. But she did not outrank me.

A slow smile made its way onto the woman’s face. “With what coin?”

I glared at her. “I am hardly destitute.”