“Yes.”

Forty-Three

Cécile

Tristan lay on the sofa with his head on my lap, one leg bent at the knee and the other heel resting on the arm of the sofa – with the disregard of someone who has never had to scrub upholstery in his life. His silver eyes gleamed like coins, distant and unblinking, his mind a twist of dread and frustration as it raced through scenario after scenario. As we waited to see what or who would come.

Both of us were fully clothed, and had been since I’d woken in the dark hours of the night, silken sheets twisted around my legs and my skin cold from Tristan’s absence. My eyes had found him standing at the window, one hand pressed against the glass as he gazed out at the night sky. “My father has sent me a letter every night since I left Trollus,” he’d said, sensing I was awake.

“What do they say?” My throat parched and voice hoarse. My head throbbed, though I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it.

“Nothing. Everything.” He dropped his hand from the glass. “They are reminders that he knows all of what I do.”

Reminders that he was in control, I thought, wrapping a blanket around my bare shoulders.

“There was no letter tonight.”

“Perhaps it is at the front desk and they are waiting until morning to deliver it.”

He shook his head. “Chris has already been down to check.”

I bit the inside of my cheeks, realizing that while I’d slept he’d come and gone, without my even noticing.

“Something has happened in Trollus,” he said, his voice sharp with trepidation. “Angoulême wouldn’t have made a move like the one he did tonight if he was not confident that my father could not retaliate.”

I hesitated. “Do you think he’s dead?” And as I had said the words I’d realized I was afraid he’d say yes. That the troll I’d wished dead more times than I could count was now the lesser evil – the only man who stood between Trollus and the blackness of Angoulême and Roland from within, and the relentless hate of Lord Aiden without.

“You tell me.”

I realized I was on my feet and pulling on my dress, though I had no memory of getting out of bed. My skin burned with tension and my head ached with the single-minded purpose of an addict. And I knew what had pulled me from sleep. “He’s alive,” I whispered, my fingers pausing on my buttons. “But he is very desperate.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

I lifted my head. Tristan had turned from the window to face me, eyes filled with a helplessness I’d never seen before. This young man who was undeniably brilliant. Who’d been raised on plots and strategies and schemes; who’d faced down the most dire of predicaments without faltering, was looking to me for an answer.

I ran my tongue over my lips, but it was very nearly as dry as they were. “That necklace matters to Anushka. We need to get it back.”

That had been hours ago. We’d dispatched Chris with a pocketful of gold to track down the stockman and buy back the necklace. We’d tasked Sabine with discovering what she could about the fallout from Esmeralda’s death; most importantly, whether Aiden or my brother had pointed a finger at Tristan. Neither had yet returned, and after discussing every possible contingency, we’d both drifted into our own thoughts.

Tristan sighed and shifted, and I felt his fingers interlock with mine. Glancing down, I saw he’d pressed his face against my stomach, his eyes closed and lashes black against his fair skin. My heart softened, warmth chasing away the tension and ceaseless pressure of the King’s compulsion. I smoothed the disarray of his hair and traced a finger along the curve of his ear, my thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone.

He relaxed, and a smile curved my lips as I thought of this hard-won gift of his trust. That he’d finally stopped trying to hide his fears and weaknesses, and was willingly turning to me for comfort was worth more to me than all the gold in Trollus.

“I love you,” I mouthed silently, and his fingers tightened around mine as though he had heard. It made me think of last night. The way it had felt. The intensity of the moment. But then an unwanted thought intruded. “Anushka was Alexis’ mistress,” I said, half to myself. “Do you know for how long?”

“Two years. Possibly three. It’s not something he would have cared to have documented. Nor would his wife.”

I frowned. “What was her name?”

“Lamia.” Tristan cleared his throat. “Other than my great-grandmother who ruled Trollus for almost forty years, Lamia is said to have been the most powerful queen in our history.”

“Did not help her much,” I muttered.

He hesitated before answering. “She may not have cared. Their match would have been arranged by the crown for the purpose of breeding power into the line, and she would have been raised to be… pragmatic.”

I considered his words, and they sounded hollow. Even if the troll queen had not cared a whit for her husband, she was still bonded to him. Anushka knew how to mute the connection, but it would have required her slipping the other woman a potion every time she was with Alexis. More likely, the Queen had known about the affair and had lived with those feelings in her head over and over again. It would have been maddening.

“Did she survive his murder?”

“Yes. But when it became clear there was no escape from Anushka’s curse, she went mad. Her son had to…” He broke off. “He had no choice. Power and madness are a poor mix.”