We’d all known her life would be a short one. I’d been furious when he’d bonded to her, no part of me understanding why he’d tied himself to someone who lived at death’s door. I’d thought it was a selfish act on both their parts, and while I’d said nothing to Marc, Pénélope hadn’t been so fortunate. It had been the last conversation we’d had.

She hadn’t died swiftly, but rather after days of ceaseless bleeding that had diminished her, drained her, until not even her fey nature could delay the inevitable any longer, and her light had gone out. I’d lurked in the corner, and even now, I could hear the loud thud of my heart in my ears, beating with dreadful anticipation as I’d planned how to keep my cousin alive after she died.

I’d kept him bound for what seemed an eternity, each day hoping that he’d come to his senses, but it never happened. So I forced him to promise that he’d live. When Marc had told Cécile about that promise, he’d made it sound as though I’d done some grand thing. In reality, it was one of the worst decisions of my life. That he’d trusted me long ago with his true name was the only reason I’d been able to salvage the situation, because using it gave me not only the power to control what he did, it allowed me to control what he thought. What he felt. What he remembered…

“I…” I started to say, but Vincent was already hurrying down the tunnel. Marc had his head lowered, face hidden by his hood.

“I’ll get it all back,” I blurted out. My father had stolen everything Marc had left of the girl he loved, and my cousin hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t complained once. And I hadn’t asked.

“It doesn’t matter, Tristan,” he said. “They’re just things. They aren’t her.”

“It does matter,” I argued. “It’s because of me that he took them, so I’ll get them back.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” I was angry now. “It is in no way fine that I never asked what he did to you. I didn’t even think…” I ground my teeth together. “I’ve been selfish. Lately. Always, maybe. That needs to change.”

“Then change,” he said, walking faster to catch up with Vincent. “But don’t concern yourself about Pénélope’s things. There are other matters more pressing.”

The conversation was over. Marc did not like to talk about Pénélope. Even when she’d been alive, he’d been close-lipped about her, as though what was between them was private and precious, not to be shared. The only person I’d ever seen him willingly discuss her with had been Cécile. She had a way of getting people to talk that I didn’t. She was empathetic. I was… judgmental.

Breaking into a trot, I hurried to catch up with my friends.

It didn’t take as long to reach Tips and his gang as I thought it would. From the way Cécile had described it to me, they worked a couple of hours’ walk from the lifts, but no more than a half hour had passed when we reached them.