My blood started to race, and I stood up, feeling the need to act. “When?”

“Tonight.” Vincent met my gaze. “But he had one condition.”

“Anything.” The word was out before I thought through what meeting Tips tonight would actually entail.

Despite his exhaustion, Vincent must have noticed my slip, because he winced. “His condition was that the conversation take place in his territory.”

I forced myself to nod, the movement jerky. “Fine. I’m in no position to argue.”

But bloody stones and skies did I want to, because Tips’s territory was the one place in Trollus that I never went. The one place that I hated above all others.

The mines.

Eight

Cécile

“Don’t you have a bed?” A sharp poke in the ribs pulled me out of my dreams, and I opened one bleary eye to regard my brother. His face was only inches from mine, full of a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Your breath stinks,” he informed me.

“Shut up.” I tried to bury my face in the settee, but the fabric was stiff and unyielding, and all the action accomplished was making my nose hurt.

Why was I asleep on the sofa? Memory of the night before came crashing down on me, from the events at the mouth of the River Road, to my mother stumbling in drunk, to her tearful justification of her abandonment of us. And then…

I sat upright, the motion making me dizzy. When the stars cleared, my eyes fixed on the empty teacup on the table. “She drugged me!”

One of Fred’s eyebrows rose.

“Mother,” I muttered, arranging my nightclothes so that I was decent.

My brother laughed, but he didn’t sound all that amused. “Sounds about right. She probably got tired of pretending to be a parent.”

I grunted in agreement, but Fred wasn’t through. “I’m fairly certain that’s where my predisposition for strong drink came from – that she fed me whisky as a babe to stop the squalling.”

“Don’t start.” I shivered. The fire had all but gone cold, and the great room was freezing. “I really don’t understand why you hate her so much. You might not agree with the choices she’s made, but it isn’t as though she’s harmed you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fred’s face darkened, and he tossed two letters on my lap. “One for you from father. Another for Sabine from her parents that you’ll need to read for her.” He turned and walked toward the door. “She’s far from harmless, Cécile, but maybe the only way you’ll learn is the hard way.”

“Wait!” I called after him, but he kept walking. Stumbling off the sofa, I scuttled around so that I was between him and the door. “I’m sorry. Stay for breakfast.”

He glared at me.

“Please?” I pantomimed a sad face. “I hardly see you.”

“I have work to do.” He picked me up and set me to one side, but this was a well-worn routine of ours. “Please!” I mock-pleaded.

“Don’t got time for you.”

I flung myself at his knees, wrapping my arms around one leg so that he dragged me forward with every step. “Please!”

“Let go. What sort of reputable lady acts this way? You’re behaving like a child off the streets of Pigalle.”

I clung tighter.

He stopped walking long enough to rub the bottom of his boot on my hair.

“We’ve got bacon,” I said, trying not to laugh and hating that laughing was even possible after last night. “And apricot marmalade.”

He switched directions and started toward the kitchen, dragging me along with him. I let go after a few steps, and getting to my feet, trailed after him. Our cook was working away, and was only now setting the bread dough aside to rise. My mother didn’t keep live-in servants. She said it was because of the cost, but I expected it was more a matter of privacy.

“What hour is it?”

“Almost noon,” Fred replied, sitting down at the table. He was wearing his uniform, with both a sword and pistol buckled at his waist. He had always been tall, but at nearly twenty, he had finally filled out his frame. He looked quite dashing, I thought, bending to examine the badges of rank adorning his chest.

“My brother will be joining me for breakfast,” I said to the cook, taking the seat closest to the fire. My mother would have insisted we eat in the dining room or the parlor, but the farm girl in me wouldn’t let go of the kitchen.

“Yes, mademoiselle.” She did not look up from her dough. My mother did not encourage familiarity with the servants, and she was a difficult woman to work for. The maids changed so often, I could scarce keep track of their names for trying.

“I saw Chris this morning,” Fred said quietly, buttering a piece of yesterday’s bread. “He told me your reclusive friends from the south are stirring up trouble.”

I sighed and nodded, wishing for a moment that I’d never told him the truth. But keeping it a secret from my family had never even occurred to me, even if I could have pulled it off.

Other than my family, only Sabine, Chris, and his father knew the truth. Gran’s magic hadn’t been strong enough to heal my injuries entirely and we’d been forced to come up with a tale to explain them. She told everyone that I’d been attacked by a madman, and only by the grace of God had the Girards been in town to rush me home in time for me to be saved. It was a truth and a lie in one, a fact I was reminded of every time I undressed and saw the six-inch red scar running the length of my ribcage. It was a mark I’d bear for the rest of my life.