I picked up a masterpiece of gold, black diamonds, and emeralds, marveling at how the gems glittered in the troll-light. The tiara alone would be worth a small fortune. The box of jewels Zoé was sorting through was worth enough to buy whole estates. Yet she showed less reverence for gems than she had the shoes I wore on my feet.

“That one is gaudy,” she said, plucking the tiara from my hands. “This is better. And these.” She handed me a simple coronet of gold and onyx and a pair of matching earrings. “You’ll need to take that off,” she said, gesturing to my necklace.

I touched it with one hand. “I never take this off – it was a gift from my mother.”

“You aren’t a farm girl any more, Cécile,” she said softly. “There are expectations regarding your appearance.”

I closed my hand over the pendant, loath to part with it. It was the last thing that was mine – the last bit of my identity that would be stripped away if I gave it up.

“I’ll give it back to you as soon as the ceremony is over,” Zoé said, and though I could see pity in her expression, she still held out her hand. This was not a choice – and the last thing I needed was her tearing it from my neck and breaking it.

Sighing, I undid the clasp and handed it over. “Put it somewhere safe.”

Nodding, she put the necklace in her pocket and began fastening my new jewelry. Once these were in place, she turned me to face the full-length mirror in the corner. In the eerie glow, I scarcely recognized myself: I appeared older and, if one ignored my swollen injuries, pretty.

“Are you ready, Mademoiselle de Troyes?”

If a thousand years came and went, I still wouldn’t be ready, but I gave a weak nod.

“Be brave,” Marc said, the half of his face I could see filled with sympathy. “Just do as His Majesty requests and this will all be over quickly.”

On Marc’s arm, I walked through the hallways of the palace. The only sound beyond the ever-present roar of falling water was the click of my heels and the rustle of my dress. He said nothing. I said nothing; although I was desperate to know what to expect. I contented myself with examining the artwork lining the hallways. No surface was left unadorned, walls and alcoves filled with sculptures so detailed I half expected them to spring to life, and paintings so vivid it was like looking out a window. Never in my life had I seen such a wealth of beauty, and it seemed such a shame that it was forever consigned to shadow.

As though sensing my thoughts, Marc’s light grew brighter. “I think we take the artistic talents of our people for granted sometimes,” he murmured.

He paused and pushed open a door. I quickly recognized the mirrored hall from earlier, when I’d been brought to meet the King. Light flew up to the ceiling, illuminating the paintings I had caught but a glimpse of earlier. “The life’s work of one of my ancestors, Charlotte Le Brun,” he said.