My mind, always attuned to where Cécile was, sensed that she was on the move. The dull throb of her misery – misery that I had caused – was a beacon allowing me to trace her progress from the palace down into the city. I didn’t like her out and about like this – the people had mixed feelings about her. Abandoning the tree, I hurried down several flights of stairs and across a bridge into the merchant district. Though she was shorter than everyone around, I caught glimpses of red hair as she walked slowly through the crowd, her guards following a few paces behind. She didn’t seem to realize that I was following. I could think of countless instances when she’d been so lost in thought that I could have walked up and tapped her on the shoulder before she’d notice me. How many times had I followed her through the glass gardens listening to her sing? How many times, and never once did she seem to sense I was there.

Or maybe she just didn’t care.

Turning down an alley, I rounded a corner to get a better view of the market and froze. Cécile was talking to Jérôme Girard’s son, Christophe. Almost without thinking, I ordered my magic to dim, letting the shadows wrap round me like a cloak.

So you can better spy on your wife.

Christophe handed her a peach, and I watched her bite into it, the yellow juices trickling down her slender fingers. She was at ease with him in a way she wasn’t with me, and it was obvious that he fancied her from the way he twitched about, the color on his cheeks, and the way he peeked down the bodice of her dress when she wasn’t looking. I felt a scowl rise to my face. He was good enough looking, I supposed. Shorter than I was, but broader, with the thick muscles all the farmers seemed to have. His hair was the color of the hay his mule was munching on, and brilliant blue eyes shone out of his tanned face. Normally he was the smiling sort, which always put me on edge – anyone who smiled all the time clearly suffered from a mental imbalance – but today his mouth was set straight in a frown. Whatever he was telling Cécile had upset her – I could feel her anguish thick on my mind – and I watched her drop the peach then bury her face in her hands. What had he said? I’d have heard about it if something had happened outside, so it wasn’t to do with her family. He was probably making up some lie about me or Trollus – something that would turn her against us.

I fought the urge to go to her side, to tell Christophe to bugger off while I comforted my wife. My Cécile. Mine.

For now. Until she leaves you to rot in the dark.

I shuddered, suppressing the thought. They were arguing now, but I couldn’t hear their words. If I used magic to amplify them, everyone near the alley would hear them as well. What he was telling her was eliciting surprise and bewilderment, which meant more lies. Cécile closed her eyes, and I saw her lips form my name. Tristan isn’t… I couldn’t make out the rest. I wasn’t what? What lies was he telling about me? Or worse, what truths?