“You’re late.” Vincent sat on a crate a few feet away, his arms crossed. “Are you sure it was wise you coming down here, Tristan? I know this is not your favorite place.”

“It seems a long time since wisdom guided my actions,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s get going.”

“Good.” Vincent’s voice sounded unfamiliar and sour. “You took forever getting here, and I’ve a quota to meet.” Not waiting for a response, he started down one of the narrow tunnels leading under the mountain. Marc and I exchanged weighted looks before starting after him, his lone shape hunched over beneath the low ceiling.

This was Vincent and Victoria’s punishment for having helped me, spending day after day, night after night, in the mines. It was hard, dirty, and dangerous work, but it hit me then that the work wasn’t the punishment. My father had separated them.

The twins’ mother had died in childbirth, and their father had passed only days later from the shock of it. Victoria and Vincent had been raised by half-blood servants with only each other for family. They had always been inseparable, never going more than a few waking hours apart. Now, they’d be lucky to see each other for a quarter-hour each day. It was the worst thing he could have done to them. The twins were broken, Anaïs was dead, and Marc…

“How did he punish you for helping me?” I asked quietly.

Marc took a long time to respond. “I was fined.”

There was something about his tone that told me there was more to it than a fine, but Marc was not one you pressed.

Vincent stopped abruptly and I nearly collided with him. Turning round, he fixed me with a stare. “They came to his house and took all of Pénélope’s things away. All her art. All his portraits of her. Everything.”

My father knew everyone’s weaknesses. And Pénélope was Marc’s. No one knew that better than me.

We’d all known her life would be a short one. I’d been furious when he’d bonded to her, no part of me understanding why he’d tied himself to someone who lived at death’s door. I’d thought it was a selfish act on both their parts, and while I’d said nothing to Marc, Pénélope hadn’t been so fortunate. It had been the last conversation we’d had.

She hadn’t died swiftly, but rather after days of ceaseless bleeding that had diminished her, drained her, until not even her fey nature could delay the inevitable any longer, and her light had gone out. I’d lurked in the corner, and even now, I could hear the loud thud of my heart in my ears, beating with dreadful anticipation as I’d planned how to keep my cousin alive after she died.

I’d kept him bound for what seemed an eternity, each day hoping that he’d come to his senses, but it never happened. So I forced him to promise that he’d live. When Marc had told Cécile about that promise, he’d made it sound as though I’d done some grand thing. In reality, it was one of the worst decisions of my life. That he’d trusted me long ago with his true name was the only reason I’d been able to salvage the situation, because using it gave me not only the power to control what he did, it allowed me to control what he thought. What he felt. What he remembered…

“I…” I started to say, but Vincent was already hurrying down the tunnel. Marc had his head lowered, face hidden by his hood.

“I’ll get it all back,” I blurted out. My father had stolen everything Marc had left of the girl he loved, and my cousin hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t complained once. And I hadn’t asked.

“It doesn’t matter, Tristan,” he said. “They’re just things. They aren’t her.”

“It does matter,” I argued. “It’s because of me that he took them, so I’ll get them back.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” I was angry now. “It is in no way fine that I never asked what he did to you. I didn’t even think…” I ground my teeth together. “I’ve been selfish. Lately. Always, maybe. That needs to change.”

“Then change,” he said, walking faster to catch up with Vincent. “But don’t concern yourself about Pénélope’s things. There are other matters more pressing.”

The conversation was over. Marc did not like to talk about Pénélope. Even when she’d been alive, he’d been close-lipped about her, as though what was between them was private and precious, not to be shared. The only person I’d ever seen him willingly discuss her with had been Cécile. She had a way of getting people to talk that I didn’t. She was empathetic. I was… judgmental.

Breaking into a trot, I hurried to catch up with my friends.

It didn’t take as long to reach Tips and his gang as I thought it would. From the way Cécile had described it to me, they worked a couple of hours’ walk from the lifts, but no more than a half hour had passed when we reached them.

Tips must have felt our power, because he was watching our direction rather than where his crew was working.

“Vincent,” he said with a nod. Vincent didn’t reply, only went over to where the half-bloods were rooting around in piles of blasted rock.

“My Lord Comte.” Tips bowed low to Marc. Then he turned to me. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

His fist flew forward, catching me hard in the cheek. I staggered back, more out of surprise than pain. With one hand, I touched my face and my fingers came away bloody. Tips’s fingers glinted with metal, and for a swift, angry moment, I thought he wore iron. Then I felt the itch of my flesh healing and realized it was only silver.