“You haven’t told her anything?” He jerked his head up toward the second level where my mother was presumably still abed, keeping an eye on the cook while he did it.

“Are you mad?” I hissed. “Of course I haven’t. Telling her anything would be as good as telling the whole Isle. All she knows is that I got cold feet and spent the summer in the south. Nothing more.” And she never pried into the details. I wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t care, or if her own secret-keeping tendencies caused her to respect mine. Either way, it worked in my favor.

“That’s good. She’s a way of using information to her advantage.” His eyes were distant. “Though it might be better if the whole damned Isle did know.”

Tension sang down my spine. “Fred, you promised to keep it between us.”

“I know.” He tracked the cook as she moved behind me. “But I don’t like it. I think we should do something. Go on the offensive when they aren’t expecting it.”

I winced. “You wouldn’t have a chance against them. How many times must I explain this to you?” I glanced over my shoulder. “They’ve got magic,” I mouthed.

He snorted, his lips pinching together. “Something else then. Cut them off. Starve them.” He leaned closer to me. “I’ve met the Regent’s son, Lord Aiden. He’s young, not more than a few years older than me, and he’s a man of action. He often walks with the men. He’d grant my request to speak privately, and I could tell him…”

“No!” I heard the cook stop moving, so I lowered my voice. “No, Fred. You can’t. Most of them are good, decent folk. They don’t deserve that. And there’s…”

“Tristan?”

It was strange hearing his name on my brother’s lips. I looked away. “Yes.”

Fred’s hands clenched where they rested on the table. “Him I’d like to have a word or two with. Stealing my little sister and performing godless magic so that I don’t dare strike at him for fear of hurting you. Bastard!”

The cook made a comment under her breath about soldiers and foul language, making Fred’s scowl deepen.

“Well, then, there you have it,” I whispered. “Fine if you have no care for starving innocent people, but at least have a care for your own sister’s life.”

He gnawed on his bottom lip, eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re an idiot and a fool when it comes to judging character, Cécile. Always have been. Refusing to see the black side of folk even when it’s right in front of your eyes.”

Was this about the trolls or our mother?

I pressed my palms against the table, and met his gaze. “You don’t know them, Fred. You don’t know him.”

“I don’t have to!” He stood up, knocking the table hard. “I can’t listen to this. I need to go.”

Fred started to go to the door, but then came back and enveloped me in a fierce bear hug. “I love you, Im-be-Cécile,” he mumbled into my hair. “But you’re blind when it comes to those you love. You need to open your eyes.”

I listened to the heavy tread of his boots, hoping that he’d reconsider and come back. But he was gone.

The clock in the great room struck the hour, pulling me from my thoughts. Bong, bong, bong, it sang softly, and I counted the beats up to twelve. “Do you know when my mother plans to rise?” I asked the cook.

“She rose at a decent hour, mademoiselle,” the cook said with a little sniff. “She departed several hours ago, but she left you a note. It’s on the front table.”

Frowning, I went out to the front entry and found a folded bit of paper with my name on the front.

Darling, I hope you are feeling much improved this morning. Please meet me at the opera house at noon today – I have wonderfully exciting news to share with you.

I glanced at the water clock, then back at the note. “Stones and sky!” I swore, then bolted to the stairs.

Nine

Cécile

I was late, but my mother was later.

We had grouped in the foyer de la danse, a grand room reserved for the premiere ballerinas and the gentlemen subscribers who admired them. It was a golden place, pilasters rising up to the graceful arches of the frescoed ceiling and mirrors reflecting the light of the massive chandelier hanging in the center.

Portraits of famous dancers and sopranos ringed the room, their intricate frames clutched by gilded cherubs. It was, in a way, a history of the Trianon opera, for while this building was relatively new, the portraits dated back to when the company was in its infancy some two hundred years prior. It reminded me of the gallery of the Kings in the Trollus library, and made me wish I’d taken the time to see the gallery of the Queens. History told through faces and clothing, the skill of the artist whispering a story with oil and brush.

I stared at the portrait of my mother hung in a place of privilege on one wall and wondered what secret truths, if any, it told about her. Moving almost of their own accord, my fingers brushed against the golden locket hanging at my throat, even as my eyes fixed on the one painted around hers.

“Cécile?”

I blinked. Sabine was staring at me with a frown on her face. “Sorry,” I said. “What was that you were saying about Julian?” She’d been telling me about my co-star’s antics the night prior, but I’d barely been listening.

She frowned. “Has something happened?”