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.