"What's happened?" she demanded. "Has someone hurt you?" Her strong arms pushed me back, face pale as she examined me. "Well?"

What to say? The truth was impossible even if I could tell her, after the way I'd just acted, I'd sound like a raving lunatic. "I woke up afraid," I mumbled, looking away for shame of how childish I sounded.

"A bad dream?" From the tone of her voice, my mother agreed with my a.s.sessment of my behavior.

Wiping tears away with the back of my hand, I nodded.

"Stars and heavens, you will be the death of me!" She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, and only then did I notice how disheveled she was. Her hair was loose of all its pins and the kohl r.i.m.m.i.n.g her eyes was smeared. "For a dream you wake the neighbors. Ahh!" she grimaced. "Not just the neighbors, half the dogs in the city were caterwauling along with you."

"I'm sorry."

"You're a fool of a girl." She shook her head, her eyes blurry with something likely wine, though it could have been absinthe. Or worse. Her hand reached for me so suddenly that I had to stop myself from jerking away. "You've been crying."

Warmth filled my chest, my heart convinced I'd heard a note of compa.s.sion in her voice.

"You shouldn't, you know. Some girls look pretty when they cry and can wield their tears like a weapon against men. But you aren't one of them. Instead of wrapping them around your finger, you'll send them running."

The warmth fled, and my mutinous bottom lip began to tremble.

Her shoulders slumped a little. "Heaven knows, that's why I never shed a tear in public." Letting go of my face, she took my arm and pulled me toward the door. "It's freezing in here. If you catch cold, you won't be able to sing. And if you can't sing..." Her mouth pressed out in a little pout. "Well, the neighbors might well be pleased."

I steadied her arm as we walked down the stairs together. "Build up the fire a bit," she said. "I will make us something hot to drink."

I mindlessly stirred the coals and added wood to the fire, my mind all for Tristan and what could possibly be going on in Trollus. Where was he now? What were they doing to him? And worst of all, what was I going to do about it? The promise I'd made his father felt like it was crawling through my veins, a separate living thing that had found its way inside me against my will.

"Sit with me."

My mother had returned to the great room with two steaming cups in her hands, the faint smell of mint and chamomile drifting through the air. I settled next to her on the well-padded settee, tucking my chilled feet underneath me to warm them. She waited until I was settled to hand me a cup, and for a long time we both silently watched the fire. It felt comfortable and warm, and for the first time ever, the austere townhouse felt almost like home and Genevieve almost like a real mother. I clung to the feeling, letting it drive away the black thoughts threatening to overtake me.

"Where were you?" I asked. The water clock showed the time as five in the morning. I hadn't slept for more than an hour. That I'd fallen asleep at all was astonishing.

"The Marquis' salon." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing her profile. In the firelight, I could see little crinkles were starting to form around her eyes, black little lines where the kohl had caught in them. "Some gentlemen he conducts business with are here from the mainland, and he wanted them well entertained."

I hesitated, a question that I'd been dying but also afraid to ask burning on the tip of my tongue. "What exactly does that mean?"

She turned her head to look at me. "What," she asked, raising one eyebrow, "do you think it means?"

"That you sing?" I ventured, because that was what I hoped. I might have been born in the morning, but not yesterday morning. I'd heard the gossip and the rumors, and though he'd never outright explained his dislike, I believed that was why Fred refused to have much of anything to do with her.

"Sometimes." She set her steaming cup down on the table. "But mostly, I talk."

Not what I'd expected her to say. I took a large mouthful, burning my tongue. "About what?"

"Everything. Anything." She pushed out her bottom lip. "Women of the n.o.bility, or at the very least, of quality, are limited by propriety in what they can discuss. I am not." She pointed a finger at me. "Neither are you. And that makes us far more desirable company than any of their wives."

I started to look away in discomfort, but she caught my chin. "That is why I sent tutors for you in the Hollow, Cecile. Because for you to succeed in this world, you must not only be beautiful, you must be educated, clever, and above all things, you must be interesting."

Her eyes searched my face, and I got the impression that I was supposed to say something. Except I didn't know what. All these things she thought I should be were fine qualities, but I didn't like the idea that their only purpose was for the entertainment of rich men.

"The Marquis keeps us in very fine style," she continued. "He pays for all this," she gestured around the house, "and for everything you have, for everything you know." One finger coiled around a lock of hair, her eyes intent. "But I am not getting any younger, and soon he will tire of me and look for a replacement. You could be my successor."

I pulled my chin out of her grasp and looked at the fire, everything becoming clear. That was why she'd wanted me educated, trained, and brought to live with her in Trianon. Not because she wanted her daughter close, but because she wanted insurance that she'd be kept in the style to which she'd grown accustomed. To live off the coin I could secure by being interesting.

"The Marquis must not have much regard for you if he'd put you aside for aging," I said coldly. I watched, waiting for her eyes to light up so that I'd know my barb had sunk deep.

Instead, she smiled and lifted her chin. "Such is the nature of men, Cecile. They will keep you only so long as there isn't something better within their reach; then they will discard you. Best you hear that from me now than learn it the hard way later."

The smoke from the fire made my eyes burn and water as I took in her words. "Papa didn't discard you."

The room seemed to shrink, sucked in and made small by the silence.

"Is that what you think?" she whispered. "Is that what he told you?"

The truth was, my father never spoke much of it at all. It was Gran who'd told us the story of how we'd come to be in the Hollow, but I knew as well as I knew the back of my own hands that my grandmother was no liar. It was my turn to lift my chin. "Are you saying it happened differently?"

She rose abruptly to her feet, tripping on the hem of her skirt as she walked swiftly over to the sideboard. I heard the clink of gla.s.s and a splash of liquid. "I should have expected that you'd believe his side of the story."

My heart skipped a little. Was there more to it than what Gran had told us? When I was a child, I'd daydreamed that my mother had only allowed us to be separated by necessity that secretly, she'd always wanted us to stay together as a family. Time and much evidence to the contrary had beaten those dreams out of me, but what if my child-self had been right? "It's the only side that's ever been told to me," I said, trying to keep my greed for the truth out of my voice. "But if there's more to hear, I'll listen."

"What's the point?" she asked. "I told your brother, and look how well it served me."

Fred knew? And hadn't told me? "I'm not my brother," I said, irritated that he'd be so petty.

"No," she agreed, her voice soft. "You've always been the most loyal of my children. My favorite."

I watched her elbow move as she lifted the gla.s.s to her mouth, but the only sound was the crackling of the fire. I felt tense with antic.i.p.ation, perhaps more than the situation warranted. What would she say? Would her story paint a different picture of our lives? Would it change the way I felt about her?

"I was sixteen and a fool when I met your father." She set the gla.s.s down but didn't remove her hand from it. "He'd left Goshawk's Hollow, gone to the continent for a time, then returned to Trianon." She turned around, and I did not fail to notice the streaks of damp on her face or the redness of her cheeks. "He was looking for a bit of excitement." She gestured at herself, flicking her hand up and down. "He found it at the opera house."

I winced, discomforted about thinking of my parents that way.

"I was certain I was in love. Thought the sun rose and set on him, and that we'd be together forever." She drained her gla.s.s. "My mother warned me otherwise, but I wouldn't listen. And by seventeen, I was married and pregnant with your brother." Her lip trembled, and she bit it furiously, trying to keep her emotions under control.

"It was fine, at first. Your father worked in the city, and I worked for the opera company when I wasn't too big with child." Her shoulders twitched. "He knew how much I loved singing onstage, and he promised never to keep me from my pa.s.sion." One fat tear ran down her face.

"But after your sister arrived, we received word that your grandfather was ill. Your father went back to be with him when he died, and when he returned, everything was different. All he talked about, all he cared about, was that farm. What I wanted wasn't important anymore." She shook her head sharply. "He insisted we move to the Hollow, but I refused. I'd grown up in the city. Everyone I knew and cared about was in the city. The thought of leaving made me miserable. I thought he'd come around, that he loved me enough to stay." She drew in a ragged breath. "I was wrong."

She was crying now. My mother, who never cried, was snuffling and sobbing. "I wanted to keep you three, but he wouldn't let me. He convinced me that I couldn't do it, that we'd be dest.i.tute, that my babies would starve." The words came out between gulps of air, and she wiped a hand under her nose. "My own mother went missing when this was all happening, and everything was madness and misery, and I... I let him take you."

An oppressive weariness fell upon me, and my mind struggled with how the same story could paint an entirely different picture when told from another point of view. She wasn't denying that she'd chosen herself and her career over being with us, but now I could see it from her perspective. Could understand how difficult it had been for her.

"It was so hard after you left. My heart was broken, and I had no money. I could barely afford to feed myself, and eventually, I came to believe your father was right. I couldn't take care of my babies, and you three were better off with him. Better off without me." A fresh swell of tears stormed down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Cecile. You deserved a better mother." Her eyes met mine. "I do love you, and I always have. I hope you know that."

I wasn't blind: I knew she was selfish, but no one was perfect. Everyone had flaws. She'd been put in a situation where there were no easy choices. I well knew how that felt. What it was like knowing there would be horrible consequences no matter what path I took.

"I love you too, Mama." Rising, I swayed wearily, my feet feeling like lead as I walked over to wrap my arms around her. I was so tired. She guided me back to the settee, and I settled down, feet tucked up and my head on her lap. Her hands gently stroked my hair, and she sang, her voice hitching and catching a bit from crying.

My head was fuzzy and numb, my tongue thick in my mouth. So tired, so tired.

"Where were you, Cecile?" Her voice was soft. "Where were you all those months?"

I wanted to tell her, to trust her, but Tristan's emotions were growing again in the back of my head. Unease. Everything merged, and I couldn't tell if he was worried, or whether I was. I shifted, tried to rise, but my limbs felt weak. My mother smoothed my hair down my back and I settled.

"I thought I'd lost you," she said. "I thought you were dead, or that maybe you'd hated the idea of coming to stay with me so much that you'd run away."

"No." The word was muddled, but I needed her to know that wasn't it. That I had wanted to be with her. "Didn't... didn't go by choice."

"Who took you?"

My teeth clenched together, the fire in the hearth seeming to blaze brighter than the sun. It hurt my eyes. "A boy from the Hollow."

"Where did he take you?"

I squeezed them shut. "Under the mountain."

"For what purpose?"

Everything was fading into black, a darkness foreign and stained with uncertainty. I fought it, trying to stay awake, to feel the heat on my face, and my mother's touch. "He sold me to them. To the trolls."

She stiffened, but I hardly felt it. My senses were numb. Everything was slipping.

"What did they want from you?" The question, insistent, buzzing and loud. Demanding to be answered. I was falling, falling, falling, but the words still slipped from my mouth.

"To set them free."

Six.

Tristan

I carefully tightened the handkerchiefs I'd tied around the manacles on my wrists, in a likely futile attempt to keep blood from soaking into the cuffs of my shirt. I had an extensive wardrobe, but eventually, I was going to have to undertake the process of laundering my clothes, and I had read somewhere that bloodstains were challenging to remove.

Dropping my fingers from the handkerchief, I scowled at the paving stones as I meandered through the nearly empty streets of the Elysium quarter, the ma.s.sive homes brilliantly lit but quiet compared to the rest of Trollus. I'd been inside most of them at one time or another, but their doorways now seemed foreign and unwelcoming, and I found myself clinging to the shadows, glancing over my shoulder like an intruder up to no good.

Though our connection was muted by distance, Cecile's mind had practically sung with tension since the moment she'd awoken. It was the feeling of someone crossing a precariously narrow bridge: unwavering focus mixed with a hint of fear, and above all, the incredible need to reach the other side. The sensation was not unfamiliar it was much like what I, or any troll, felt after making a promise. But it felt utterly alien coming from her, as did the aggressive impatience that flared within her with increasing frequency. She seemed... changed.

The arched entrance to the Angouleme manor appeared as I rounded the corner. There were two women standing guard, and I retreated back down the street before they could see me, leaning against a wall to wait. Anais would have to pa.s.s by this way eventually.

The true power of a promise was not something humans gave entirely enough thought to. Those who knew of us seemed to consider the binding nature of our word a weakness only partially tempered by our ability to twist speech to suit our purposes.

What they did not understand, at least not until it was far too late, was that there was a certain reciprocity to the magic. If a human made a promise to a troll, the troll was quite capable of binding the human to her word, should he feel inclined. If the troll was willing enough to make the effort, and the promise impossible enough to fulfill, the human could be driven to the point where she would not sleep or eat to the point where her mind cracked or her heart stopped beating over the stress of her continued failure. And I had no doubt my father was willing to make the effort in order to reach his goal.

I considered how he would use the leverage he had gained over my human wife. He would not drive her so hard as to kill her, not yet, anyway. He was patient he'd keep pressure on her for months, slowly stripping away her mind until all that would be left was a sh.e.l.l with one purpose: to break the curse. Even if she survived it, she would no longer be the Cecile I knew and loved. I had to keep that from happening, but the only sure way to stop it was to kill my father, and that solution was fraught with more complications than I cared to count. Which was half the reason I was standing here in the shadows.

The other half was something else entirely.

I waited a long time until I was almost sure I'd missed her, when suddenly a familiar form came around the bend and started up the set of stairs I lurked next to. "Anais," I breathed. She hadn't noticed me, so I watched her walk, shoulders back and head high, like the princess she had almost been. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But it was a loveliness that came from flawlessness, every feature perfect in a way that made her seem almost created by design. It was the beauty of the fey. A face echoing all those who had come before, much as was my own.

Anais froze mid-step, eyes scanning the shadows until they latched on to me. Lowering her foot, she stared, face expressionless.

Until recently, I'd barely gone a day without spending time in her presence. With the exception of Marc, she was my oldest and closest friend. And without a doubt, she was my most loyal accomplice. Her history was my history, our lives interwoven as only those who were childhood friends could be. I knew everything about her, all her stories and secrets, and she knew me equally as well.

As our eyes locked, I remembered what I had told Cecile before the sluag attack that Anais and I had never been more than friends. Technically, that was true. But it was also a lie. Anais was the first girl I'd l.u.s.ted after, the first I'd ever kissed, the first of many things. But I'd never loved her, not like that.

Almost as though she could sense my thoughts, Anais bolted up the last few steps and started down the street toward her home.

"Anais," I called, hurrying after her. "Anais, wait!"

She ignored me, and in another few steps, she would be in sight of the guards at the gate.

"Anais, please." I broke into a run. "I need to talk to you."

She slid to a stop and rounded on me. "I suppose that's the key word, isn't it? Need? Did you ever talk to me because you wanted to?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but she raised a hand. "I don't want to hear it, Tristan. I don't want to hear you. I don't ever want to see your face again. I'm tired of you using me."

"Anais." I closed the distance between us, my pleasure at seeing her alive tempered by the fury in her eyes. She had never looked at me like that before. "We've been friends our whole lives; how can you say these things?"

"Friends?" she scoffed. "Friend is just a label you give your favorite tools. I see that now. You only pretended to care so we'd a.s.sist with your plans."

"You know that isn't true." I searched her face, looking for a trace of something that wasn't anger. "I care about you. I..."

"Right." She rolled her eyes, but I could see her hands were clenching her skirts. "The only person you care about, the only person you love, is her. And sometimes I wonder if that isn't just out of some sense of self-preservation on your part." She laughed wildly, and it sounded strange and off-key in my ears. Not a laugh I'd heard before. "Except that can't be right," she said, her shoulders shaking. "Because you loathe yourself, don't you? You despise your very nature." The corner of her mouth turned up. "Well, now you are in good company, because with the exception of that imbecile, Marc, there isn't a soul in Trollus who does not hate you."

She was the last person I'd ever expected to turn on me. Had I not known her as well as I thought? Or was what I'd done worse than I believed? "If I don't care about you, then why was I so happy to learn you had survived? Why am I here now?"

"I really don't know, Tristan." Her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks. I hadn't seen her cry like this since Penelope died she always said she hated public displays of emotion. "You left me there to die. Left me there even though you knew..." Her voice cracked, and she wiped the dampness from her face.

"Even though I knew what?" I asked, though the answer had already oozed up from the depths of my subconscious.

She swallowed hard before answering. "Even though you knew I could be saved. You knew that witches could heal trolls from iron wounds, because Cecile healed you." She sniffed, squeezing her eyes shut. "Your father had a witch in Trollus, but you didn't stop to think of me. You just took her and left." Her eyes snapped back open. "After everything I'd done for you, you left me to die. If not for your father, I would be rotting in a tomb. He only stabbed me out of desperation he never had any intention of harming me."

The moment replayed through my mind. She was right I hadn't even stopped to consider that her life could be saved. My one and only concern had been getting Cecile safely away from Trollus.

"I didn't know where he was keeping the witch," I said. "If I had known..."

"If you had known, you still would have chosen Cecile over me."