We wandered aimlessly through the glass gardens, which never ceased to amaze me: the detail blown into each plant, the thorns on the rose bushes, the pinecones and seedpods artistically scattered beneath the trees, the tiny drops of glass dew suspended beneath the tips of leaves. Unlit, they were a thing of beauty, but flooded with troll-light, they were magical, ethereal even. “How long did it take to create?” I asked, bending down to look at a gardenia that was so realistic, I half expected to smell its sweet perfume when I inhaled.

“Three hundred and thirty-seven years.”

I smiled at his troll-like precision.

“Why didn’t they use color? I’ve seen it in other glassworks in Trollus.”

“You would have to ask someone in the Artisans’ Guild, but if I were to speculate… it would be because they knew it would be a pale imitation of the real thing.”

“Or perhaps they couldn’t remember the colors,” I said, closing my eyes and trying to visualize fields of green grass and vibrant wildflowers. Already it seemed something from another life.

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t you ever wish you could see it, Marc? Stand in the ocean and feel the water swirl around your knees? Feel the blast of winter snow coming off the mountains or the scorching heat of the summer sun? To walk through a field of golden wheat just before harvest, or gallop through a meadow sweet with the smells of spring?”

I sat on one of the stone benches scattered throughout the garden, the weight of memory heavy upon me. “Don’t you ever dream of it?”

Marc looked away so that I could only see his profile, so handsome on its own. So like his cousin’s.

“No,” he said. “I don’t dream of that.”

“What do you dream of?”

His shoulders jerked as if I had slapped him.

“Pénélope.” His voice rasped over her name like he hadn’t said it in a very long time. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.” He sat heavily on the bench next to me, head in his hands.

Gently, I took his left hand and pulled off the leather glove he always wore. An inky black pattern scrolled across his fingers, still beautiful in its own sad way. “Will you tell me about her?”

He nodded. “She is… was, Anaïs’s elder sister. But the only similarity between the two was their beauty. Pénélope, she was sweet and kind. Quiet. We were friends as children. I don’t remember when it was that I fell in love with her. Sometimes I think I loved her all my life.” His voice cracked and his fingers tightened over mine. “I wanted to marry her, but my father refused because she… It had recently come to light that she had the bleeding condition. Such things pass on to children.”

I sighed softly. I had not known such a thing existed until I came to Trollus, but since I had been here, two boys had died from it. Blood that would not clot – the slightest injury could be fatal.