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 Cecile. 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 p.r.i.c.kling with slight pain as I pa.s.sed 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. "Francois Bouchard," he said, finally releasing my hand. "We are so pleased you could join us at our little fete."

"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, Cecile.

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."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur," Anna said, keen to get a word in.

"Of a certainty, the pleasure is mine," I replied. "I was half-afraid I was facing a lonely dinner, but instead I find myself here, in your company, which is an improvement far beyond what I might have hoped for."

She laughed, and took a mouthful of wine. "The dark side of bachelorhood, I'm afraid. But you are here now, and it is far past time you were introduced. Francois will take you on the tour there are a great many gentlemen who would like to make your acquaintance, and more than a few ladies, I'm sure."

"You're in mining, isn't that right?" Bouchard said, leading me off. "I've a number of clients in the business, so I was surprised not to have heard your name, all things considered."

Those things being in fact one thing: wealth.

"My father takes great pains to protect the family's anonymity," I said, smiling at a cl.u.s.ter of young women standing together I did have a part to play, after all. The girls all clutched at each other's arms, heads pressed together as they whispered. "We conduct all of our business through agents known for their discretion. I'd be more surprised if you had heard our name."

"Your presence indicates you're not of a like mind with your father," he commented. "He can't be best pleased at your decision to leave?"

"He's been surprisingly supportive of my adventure out into the world," I replied. Supportive as long as I walked down the path he wanted. "He personally ensured I was well equipped to invest in my future," I mimicked my father's dry voice as he'd shoved the chest of gold through the barrier. "But now isn't the time to talk business."

Which only made him want to discuss it all the more. I took the gla.s.s of champagne he handed me, discreetly looking around the room. Was a.n.u.shka here? I thought not. Cecile's argument that the witch was under the protection of the Chasteliers had been compelling, and that would suggest she resided amongst a higher cla.s.s of people.

"I'd be happy to a.s.sist you in facilitating those investments," he said, eyes bright. "Perhaps if you gave me an idea of the magnitude of investment you're considering, I'd be better able to direct your introductions."

The question was cra.s.s, but given I was supposed to be some sort of back-country recluse, it was prudent that I not react. I leaned in and murmured a number.

Bouchard's eyes bugged. "Your options are many, Monsieur de Montigny."

"Excellent," I said. "I'll make an appointment with you as soon as it's convenient."

And so it began, a whirlwind of introductions and small talk, with everyone clambering to meet me because I was young, attractive, wealthy, and most of all, new. Even if I'd been dull as a brick, my novelty would've made me shine.

And I felt the same way. I'd spent my entire life surrounded by the same trolls, rarely meeting anyone new; and when I did, the barrier of power and cla.s.s kept me from truly getting to know them. Cecile had been the only exception, and well I remembered the allure of her differentness. The appeal of knowing that so much about her was unknown. I felt a similar sensation as I walked through the party, full of humans who thought I was one of them, everything strange and different and exciting. It was a thousand times more intoxicating than the wine poured liberally into my gla.s.s.

So I danced with all the young women and a few of their mothers, made ribald jokes with the men in the corners, flirted with the girls and discussed politics with their fathers. Time flew, and before long, I found myself in a room dark with tobacco smoke, a brandy in one hand, and cards in the other.

"You're either the luckiest b.a.s.t.a.r.d to ever walk the Isle or you're counting, Tristan," one of the other young men muttered, eyeing his cards.

"I'm sure you'd do the same if you only had enough fingers and toes to manage the task," I said, enjoying the laughter of the other men. I was counting the cards, I couldn't help it, but I decided to throw my hand down rather than risk being thought a cheat. "I'm out."

"Well, well, well. Who do we have here?"

Smiles grew on the faces of the other men, and looking over my shoulder, I saw Cecile's mother. There was no mistaking her. Setting my brandy on the table, I rose to my feet. "Madame de Troyes, your reputation precedes you."

Her blue eyes managed to be familiar and foreign at the same time. "I should say the same of you. In the city not half a day, and already you have the gossip mills churning. You'll have no peace."

I shrugged. "The only thing worse than being talked about is being not talked about."

Her mouth quirked, but her gaze was cool. "How clever."

"I'm afraid I can't take credit as the originator. My skill lies in repeating the words of those more creative than I."

"False modesty is unattractive," she said, holding out a gloved hand. "It's how a weak man earns his praise."

"And how does a strong man earn it?" I asked, kissing her fingers and wishing I'd been forewarned that she'd be here.

"With his actions."

"Beautiful and wise, I see." She must have heard Cecile's half-invented story of meeting me in the summer and decided to seek me out. There was no other reason for her presence.

She pulled her hand from my grasp, and then surprised me by running one finger along my jaw, the familiarity of the gesture unnerving. "Do you always run so hot?"

"It's in the blood," I replied. "We Montignys have our curses, but clammy feet isn't one of them."

One tawny eyebrow rose. "I suppose that has its advantages on a cold winter's night."

The room burst into whistles and catcalls. I coughed, reaching blindly behind me for my drink, nearly knocking it over in the process. Genevieve laughed, the sound loud and clear as a clarion bell, and every man in the room echoed her as though on cue. My ears buzzed and my spine crawled with discomfort, which I hid behind my gla.s.s as I downed my brandy in a long gulp. Any doubt that Genevieve possessed a witch's powers vanished from my mind, but I remained uncertain of whether she was aware. Cecile had used magic unknowingly, and her mother might well be doing the same.

Her laughter eventually trailed off. "Why don't you pour me a drink."

"What's your pleasure?"

"Surprise me."

I went to the sideboard with its dozen decanters and splashed a generous amount of brandy into two gla.s.ses. It was well past time I was away from this party. Something about her made me uneasy, and it wasn't that she'd just one-upped me.

"A song for us, Genevieve?" Bouchard was watching from the corner where he stood with a few older gentlemen.

"Later," she called, taking the drink from me. "If I give it up so easily, you'll lose your appreciation."

"Impossible," he declared. "You are beyond compare, and there isn't a man in this room who doesn't know it. Or isn't about to find out." He winked at me and I raised my gla.s.s in response.

Genevieve took my arm, leading me closer to the fire. The room was already hot, and the flames only made it worse. A bead of sweat ran down my back, and my shirt stuck uncomfortably to my skin.

"So tell me," she said. "Why have you come to Trianon?"

"What do the gossip mills say?" The brandy tasted foul, and I wished it were water.

"They say a great many things, but one can never be certain of their accuracy."

I chuckled. "That's what makes it interesting, isn't it?"

She pursed her lips. "You're not going to tell me?"

I shook my head. "If I reveal my true purpose, I might have to follow through with it. I'm not sure I'm ready for that much commitment."

"And yet the rumors say you're here looking for a wife." She sipped at her drink. "Some people say that's the ultimate commitment."

"I think you are not one of them."

She blinked. "You seem to know a great deal about me."

"I make it my business to be informed about the mothers of the daughters who interest me," I said. "Cecile has a lovely voice. I was entranced from the moment I first heard it."

The gla.s.s in her hand shattered.

She stared at the blood dripping down her fingers, seemingly as astonished as I was. In an instant, we were surrounded by the other men, Bouchard taking hold of her wrist and pulling her fingers open. The rest of the gla.s.s toppled to the ground with a m.u.f.fled little clink.

"What happened?" he demanded, examining the cut.

"The heat from the fire," she said. "It must have made the gla.s.s shatter."

Which was absolute nonsense. I'd intended to lure her in by mentioning Cecile, but I'd gotten much more than I'd bargained for. Anger? Fear? I found her difficult to read, so I wasn't precisely sure. But what I did know for certain was that she wanted me nowhere near her daughter.

"This should be seen to by a physician; it may need to be st.i.tched," he said, holding her palm out for me to see. I nodded in agreement, though I knew nothing about judging the severity of a human injury.

"Nonsense." She retrieved a handkerchief and wrapped up her hand. "I'll be fine. But I'll need another gla.s.s." She waved away the onlookers, and then set her replacement beverage on top of the mantel. "Cecile has been quite reticent about revealing the details of where she was during the months of her absence."

"And you thought in seeking me out that I might divulge some of those details?"

"What sort of mother would I be if I didn't take an interest in my daughter's comings and goings. And disappearances."

"An absent one, I suppose," I said with a smile, not sure why I was provoking her when my aim was to win her over. "But that is neither here nor there. I'm afraid I'll not reveal Cecile's secrets. If you wish answers, you'll have to ask her yourself."

Her jaw tightened. "What of your intentions toward her? Will you divulge those?"

"You're forward."

"She's young and naive. I don't want to see her hurt."

"Ah." I handed my empty gla.s.s to a pa.s.sing servant. "Well, rest a.s.sured, Madame de Troyes, I'd sooner harm myself than your daughter. Nothing would please me more than to see her onstage unenc.u.mbered by such trivial concerns as finances."

"You wish to offer her patronage?" Her eyes narrowed. "In exchange for what?"

"Is not the pleasure of seeing her perform payment enough?"

She snorted softly. "Don't patronize me. You could have that for the price of a ticket."

"Her company, then."

"You're in the practice of paying for your... company? Or is Cecile to be first in a line of many?"

"No," I said, my voice chilly. I did not like this woman. The expression in her eyes was flat and calculating. None of her questions were driven by a desire to protect Cecile, but rather to determine whether the longevity of my interest was worth the investment. "But I am in the practice of using what means are at my disposal to make those I care for happy."

"I see."

Nothing would be gained from prolonging this conversation. I needed to leave, but any excuse would look like an attempt to flee her scrutiny.