I jerked back, furious. “You don’t even know him – Tristan isn’t like that.”

“I’ve been coming to Trollus almost all my life, Cécile. My father has been coming here for nearly all of his, and his father before him, and his father before that. You think you know them, but you don’t. They are pure evil.”

“You are wrong to think they are any worse than we are,” I argued. “And wrong to say we rule ourselves anymore benevolently than the troll kings have ruled their subjects.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Chris hissed. “They enslave their own. Murder their own. They are incapable of any sort of decency.”

I closed my eyes. “Tristan is different. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He loves me.” My voice sounded plaintive and pathetic. I had no ground to stand on – I knew the trolls’ dark history. It had been Tristan who’d told me of it. But in my heart, I knew he was different. He wasn’t like the kings of past.

Chris closed his hand over mine. It was warm, but not in the feverish way of the trolls. He turned my hand over and our fingers linked: his tanned and calloused from years of labor in the fields; mine, pale as marble and buffed smooth by my maids. “Cécile, you must leave this place. Already you’ve changed, faded.” His dark thumb brushed over my skin. “Trollus is killing you.”

White-hot fury lanced through my mind with a force that sent me reeling.

“Get your hands off of her,” said a voice behind me.

Chris raised my hand, kissed my knuckles gently and then got to his feet. Very brave, but also very stupid. Which he probably realized when a fist of magic hammered into his stomach, tossing him against the wagon. The mule brayed unhappily, pinning its ears against its head.

I was on my feet and between them in a flash. “Stop it!” I pressed my hands against Tristan’s chest, trying to keep some distance between the two. “He’s telling me news about my family.”

Tristan didn’t even look at me – his eyes remained fixed on Chris. “She doesn’t need to speak to the likes of you to have news about her family.”

“The likes of me?” I heard Chris come up behind me, and I turned, slamming a hand against his chest to keep him from coming any closer. “Let it go, Chris,” I warned, but he paid no more attention to me than Tristan had.

“The likes of me is the same as the likes of your wife,” Chris snapped. “I’ve known her all her life. I know her father and her grandmother. I’m friends with her brother. I’ve danced with her at festivals and walked her home from her lessons in town. We’re the same people.”

“She is nothing like you,” Tristan sneered, his tone making me flinch. It made him sound like his father. “She is my wife. She is Princess of Trollus, and you are not fit company for her.”

“She’s your prisoner.”

Tristan showed no visible reaction, but I felt Chris’s words strike him to the core.

I turned, pressing my back against Tristan and pulling his arm around me. “That isn’t true Chris. I told you – I’m here because I want to be.”

“That true, my lord? Does she have the choice to leave if she wanted to? Has she ever had the choice?”

Tristan was silent. I could hear his heart beating furiously where my head rested against his chest.

“Just as I thought.” Chris’s face was dark with anger. “You stole her from her kin and now she’s your prisoner. She might say she loves you, but I don’t believe it for a minute. You’ve either put some magic on her mind or she’s just saying it because it’s what you want to hear!”

“That isn’t true!” I shouted. “You shut your mouth, Christophe!” I looked up at Tristan. “It isn’t true. You know I love you.” He refused to meet my eyes, but his grip around my waist increased, drawing me tight against him.

“We have no such magic.” His sword slithered as he pulled it out of its scabbard. “I could have your head for this, boy. Or perhaps cut you open and leave you on the street to die, slowly. I could kill your father for bringing such an insolent brat into my presence.” His grip on my side was becoming painful, his fingers grinding the bones of my corset against my ribs.

I closed my eyes, fear building in my gut. This wasn’t Tristan I was hearing. It was his father’s voice, and the voices of all those horrible selfish kings before him. The voice of a troll.

“No,” I whispered. “Please, don’t.”

“Aye, you could,” Chris said, and I saw the first traces of fear on his face. Then he looked at me, “Seems to me he’s just like all the rest of them, Cécile.”

“You have no right to use her name,” Tristan snapped, and I gasped against the pain in my side.

“You’re hurting her!” Chris shouted.

Everything happened too quickly. Chris swung his fist at Tristan’s face, but it bounced off a shield of magic. Tristan pushed me out of the way, and my feet tangled in my skirts as I fell in a heap. Neither of them noticed.

“Can’t even fight like a real man!” Chris shouted. “Always hiding behind your magic.”

“Hardly,” Tristan replied. Then he punched Chris in the face. Chris staggered, and then with a shout, leapt forward, knocking Tristan backwards. They grappled on the ground, both of them landing heavy blows and neither of them paying any attention to my pleas for them to stop. Chris was older and his body was heavy from muscle that only hard labor could bring. But his was human strength. It was only a few moments until Tristan had him pinned, fingers latched tight around Chris’s throat.

“You’re killing him,” I shrieked, pulling at his wrists, trying to make him let go. “Tristan, stop this! Please!” I pounded my fists against his shoulders, dug my nails into his arms, but it was as if I were invisible. Chris’s face turned purple and his attempts to dislodge Tristan’s hands grew as weak and ineffective as my own. “Please stop!” I begged, but he wasn’t listening to me. So I screamed, my voice echoing through Trollus.

Boots pounded towards us and several trolls, including my mysteriously absent guards, appeared. Chris’s father was with them. “Stop them!” I shouted.

Jérôme tried to run forward, but one of the trolls snatched him off his feet. He dangled helplessly in the air, terrified eyes on his dying son. “Help him,” I screamed.

The trolls exchanged amused glances with each other and one of them shook his head at me. They wouldn’t help. If their prince wanted to strangle a human boy, why should they stop him?

I grabbed hold of Tristan’s shoulders again and pulled with all my strength, but it wasn’t enough. Chris was going to die, and I was powerless. Dropping to my knees, I pressed my lips to Tristan’s ear. “I will not forgive you if you do this. I will never forgive you if you kill him.”

I felt realization click in his mind, rage fleeing in the face of horror and guilt. His hands jerked away from Chris’s neck and he stared at them as if amazed at what they’d been doing. Then he rose smoothly to his feet.

Chris rolled on his side, gasping for breath, redness receding from his face. “Are you all right?” I asked, touching his shoulder. He jerked away as if I’d burned him.

“So strong,” he rasped out. “How can anyone be that strong?”

“They all are, you idiot,” I whispered.

His eyes flickered up, looking over my shoulder at Tristan like a sheep watching a wolf. “Then the witch was right to lock them down here – nothing could ever stop them.”

“He’s right.”

I looked at Tristan, who stood with his arms crossed, his face bleak. “No, he isn’t,” I replied. I made my voice firm, but it would be a lie to say I was as confident about that fact as I had been an hour ago.

Tristan refused to meet my gaze, instead, he gestured to the troll holding Jérôme. “Let him go.”

Jérôme staggered as the magic released him and hurried over to his son. Chris was on his feet now, holding onto the edge of the wagon to keep his balance. Jérôme cuffed him hard. “Blasted fool! What were you thinking?” He turned to Tristan and bowed. “My deepest apologies, Your Highness. The lad is young, impulsive.”

Tristan didn’t reply, only watched me in silence. Reaching into his pocket, he tossed a gold coin through the air at Jérôme, who caught it. “For the peach she ate.”

Jérôme looked at the coin glittering in his palm. Then he tossed it back. “We’ve already been paid for the load, my lord. Market rate, not a penny more, not a penny less.” He inclined his head to Tristan. “We know your rules, and we follow them.” The last bit I was certain he directed at his son, but if Chris heard, it did not register on his face.

“You’re a good man, Jérôme,” Tristan said, voice heavy as he turned away from us.

I watched the trolls make way for him as he strode out of the market, and then I glared at Chris. “You’re wrong about them. You’re wrong about him.” Grabbing up my skirts, I ran after Tristan, guards hot on my heels.

I found him in a tavern that did not normally cater to noblemen. Not that it was rough or run down – nothing in Trollus was – but it carried the less expensive products that appealed to the working class – the half-bloods. Noon had not yet passed, and the room was empty except for Tristan and the proprietor, who was drying a glass with the vigor of an anxious man. “Something to drink, my lady?” he asked as I made my way through the tables. I shook my head and sat down across from Tristan. A glass with amber liquid sat in front of him untouched, the sharp scent of whiskey rising up to assault my nostrils. A dark bottle sat corked next to his hand.

“My gran always said that drink might make you forget your problems, but it doesn’t solve anything,” I said. “Besides, I’ve never even seen a drunk troll.”

“Your gran had a lot to say.” Tristan swished the liquid around the glass and tossed it back.

“Most grandmothers have a lot to say. And they are usually right.”

“Perhaps I’d be wiser if mine were still alive to fill my ears with such helpful proverbs.”

He reached for the bottle, but I pulled it away. “No.”

His hand dropped to the table. “You should go, Cécile.”

“No.” Every inch of me felt cold beneath the weight of his misery.

“I hurt you. I nearly killed your friend for speaking the truth. For touching you.” He rested his chin in his hands. “He was right. Everything he said was true.”

“Not everything,” I whispered. “I love you, Tristan. I want to be here with you.”

“I should have distracted your guards and let him steal you away in his wagon,” Tristan said, his eyes blank and distant. “He fancies you – has for a long time, I think. He’d make a good husband. You could live on a farm with golden wheat fields and have golden-haired babies.” He sounded almost wistful.

“No!” Tears trickled down my face, my misery magnifying his until I felt overwhelmed.

“Under the sun, with your family. That’s where you belong.”

Every inch of me hurt. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Tristan was going to send me away because he thought that deep down it was what I wanted. He would think he was doing it for my own good, that I would be happier. But the thought of never seeing his face, or feeling the heat of his skin against mine, his lips against my lips, caused greater pain than any torturer could devise.

“I was planning on leaving them anyway, and besides…” I struggled to articulate myself. Even if ten years passed between now and the time I saw my family, they’d still be my family. They’d still love me as much and the same way as they always had. But if Tristan and I were parted for ten years? What was between us was new and fragile. Time would not leave it unscathed, and the thought of losing it broke my heart. “You’re more important to me now,” I finally said.

My words finally snapped him out of his miserable reverie, and his eyes focused on me. “You don’t mean that. The distance would diminish the bond. You’d think about us less and less until one day your time in Trollus would seem like a bad dream that left a strange mark on your hand.”

I wiped the wet streaks off my face with my sleeve and met his eyes. “And would you forget about me? Would the memory of the human girl you married and loved fade away until it seemed like she was just a bad dream?”

His eyes darkened and he looked away. “No. Never.”

“Then how can you believe I would forget?” I reached for his hands, but he pulled them off the table. “I love you, Tristan. Given the choice, I would stay. You must believe that.”

“I can’t.” His voice was so quiet I barely heard him.

“Why?” I slammed my fists down on the table. “Why can’t you believe me? Why don’t you trust me?”

“Because you’re human, Cécile. You can lie, even to yourself.”

I wrapped my arms around my torso, trying to ward off the sorrow and misery like it was the cold.

“Go, Cécile. I need to be alone. I need to think.”

The bench scraped against the ground when I pushed it back, but that was the only sound in the room. I walked to the entrance and opened the door, but it was as far as I could stand to go. From round the corner, I heard Tristan ask the tavern keeper for paper, pen, and ink. I stood frozen in place, desperate to know what he was writing. A note to put in my pocket when he shoved me in a cart destined for outside? Or something else?