I was only vaguely familiar with banking as a profession, but I had no intention of admitting it. “Done.” Going over to the massive desk, I carefully penned my reply to Monsieur Bouchard and my regrets to the others. “Have these sent off,” I said, handing them to Chris, assuming he would know how that was to be accomplished. “And have them send up something else to eat – I’m famished. And you–” I rounded on Sabine. “I need you to tell me everything you know.”

Forty

Tristan

Our hired hansom cab whisked us swiftly through the lamp-lit streets, the air chill and sparkling with frozen crystals. Chris sat across from me, both of us polished within an inch of our lives and twitching with nerves. Our plan was for me to spend the next several nights immersing myself in Trianon society, and then to begin my pursuit of Cécile. Until then, I wouldn’t see her at all, and I hated that.

“How will I know what I’m supposed to do?” Chris asked for the seventh time. “What if I make a mistake?”

“As long as you don’t say anything you shouldn’t, you’ll be fine,” I replied for the seventh time. “Do whatever all the other men are doing, which is likely nothing that resembles work. Be sociable, but not so much that you draw undue attention to yourself. We’ve gone through our backstory, so all you need to do is stick with that.” The advice was as much for me as it was for him.

“I’m going to make a mistake,” Chris groaned. “Sabine would have been better for this.”

“Indeed she would have,” I said, refraining from mentioning that I’d asked her to do exactly that. “But I’m bound by your peculiar human social conventions in this, so I have to settle for you. People would talk if I showed up with a ladyservant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chris retorted.

“It means in Trollus, it wouldn’t matter. We don’t have separate rules for men and women. Power and blood are all that matters.”

Chris examined the polish of his boots, mind momentarily taken off his nerves. “What about the oath we take then – that no human man can touch a troll woman. Why isn’t it just that no human can touch a troll?”

“For physiological reasons.”

Chris blinked.

I sighed. “If a human man consorts with a troll woman, he can leave without taking responsibility for the consequences. If a human woman cavorts with a troll man and becomes pregnant, she will be physically incapable of leaving Trollus until the child is born. For the most part, that’s motivation enough for them to turn aside any advances. But frankly,” I said, “it’s not a rule that’s particularly well enforced. Half-bloods have always been a valuable commodity, and a blind eye is often turned to the introduction of new blood.”

“Makes sense.”

“Imagine that.” It was a relief when the carriage ground to a halt. “I think we’re here.”

As the footman approached to open the door, I examined the home we’d stopped in front of. It was a relatively large, square, two-story affair made of brick, the windows bright with a yellow glow that far outshone that of the half moon above. Music trickled out to greet me as I stepped onto the walkway lining the street.

“Monsieur de Montigny?” The footman inquired.

“Yes.” It was strange to be called such.

“Monsieur Bouchard is expecting you.”

I followed the man up to the entrance of the house, my skin prickling with slight pain as I passed through the gate of the wrought iron fence encircling the property. I wondered if they remembered why such fences had come into existence – to keep the immortal fey away. Unfortunately for humanity, it did little to protect them from trolls. Mortality had come with some advantages, not the least of which was a better tolerance of the metal.

The door opened, and I stepped inside. The air was roasting hot and full of the smells of food, perfume, sweat, and smoke – the music and chatter of dozens of voices loud in my ear. My pulse raced. I’d been to countless parties in my lifetime where I had an agenda other than entertainment. I’d pretended to be someone who I was not for years. But never had I been so far out of my element, and the challenge both terrified and intoxicated me.

“Monsieur de Montigny!” A booming voice caught my attention, and I turned, half in the process of handing off my hat and cloak, to see a short, crimson-faced man with an abundance of white whiskers bearing down on me. He stuck his hand out, and though the concept of shaking hands was entirely strange to me, I took it, clenching my teeth into a smile as he jerked my stiff wrist up and down. “François Bouchard,” he said, finally releasing my hand. “We are so pleased you could join us at our little fête.”

“I was pleased to receive the invitation,” I said, following through the foyer. “This is my first visit to Trianon, and I confess to feeling much like a fish out of water.”

“Well, you’re in good hands now.”

A woman dressed in brilliant pink stepped out in front of us, her eyes widening as they met mine. “There you are, my dear,” Bouchard said. “Anna, this is Monsieur de Montigny, who’s just arrived from the south – from near Courville, if what I’ve heard is correct?”

Thank you, Cécile.

I smiled, kissed the woman’s outstretched knuckles, and said, “Your ears have not failed you.”

“Good to know,” Bouchard said, and I only just refrained from blocking the arm he raised, reluctantly allowing him to slap me across the shoulders. “One can’t count on these things at my age.”