Everyone stood staring mutely at each other long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

“We’d best be off,” my mother finally said, her voice jarringly cheerful. “We’re late as it is. Cécile, darling, I won’t be home tonight, so don’t wait up.”

I nodded my head and watched the Marquis escort my mother out the back entrance. I wondered briefly whether he knew she was married to my father, and if he did, whether he cared. He’d been my mother’s patron for years, but I hadn’t known he existed until I came to Trianon. As to whether my family had been kept from that knowledge or my family had kept the knowledge from me, I couldn’t say. Sighing, I made my way to my dressing room, closing the door firmly behind me.

Sitting down on the stool in front of the mirror, I slowly peeled off my stage gloves and picked up a short lace pair that I habitually wore to cover my bonding marks. The silver of my tattoo shone in the candlelight, and my shoulders slumped.

How much torture could a person endure before breaking? A knot of continuous pain sat in the back of my mind – pain laced with wild fear and anger that never diminished, never seemed to rest. A constant reminder that Tristan suffered in Trollus so that I could be safe in Trianon. A constant reminder of my failure to help him.

“Cécile?”

I twisted around, instinctively covering my bonding marks with my other hand until I saw it was Sabine, and then I let my arms drop to my sides. Her brow furrowed when she saw my face, and she came the rest of the way inside, shutting the door behind her.

Despite her parents’ protestations, my oldest and dearest friend had insisted on coming to Trianon with me. She’d always been a talented seamstress and had proven to have a knack for hair and cosmetics, so I’d been able to convince the company to hire her as my dresser.

While I had been recovering, my family had told everyone in the Hollow that I’d gotten cold feet about moving to Trianon and fled to Courville on the southern tip of the Isle. But keeping my secret from Sabine had never been an option. After what she’d gone through during my disappearance, allowing her to believe that I’d let her endure all that hurt because of performance nerves would have been unforgivable.

“You weren’t all that bad,” she said, dipping a rag in some cold cream and setting to work removing my makeup before fastening my gold necklace back around my throat. “In fact, you weren’t bad at all. Just not your best. Who could be under the circumstances?”

I nodded, both of us aware that it wasn’t my mother’s words troubling me.

“And Genevieve, she’s being a right old witch to say otherwise.”

Apparently my mother’s whispered criticism had not gone unheard. “She wants the best for me,” I said, not knowing why I felt the urge to defend her. It was a childhood habit I couldn’t seem to break.