Both of us were fully clothed, and had been since I’d woken in the dark hours of the night, silken sheets twisted around my legs and my skin cold from Tristan’s absence. My eyes had found him standing at the window, one hand pressed against the glass as he gazed out at the night sky. “My father has sent me a letter every night since I left Trollus,” he’d said, sensing I was awake.

“What do they say?” My throat parched and voice hoarse. My head throbbed, though I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it.

“Nothing. Everything.” He dropped his hand from the glass. “They are reminders that he knows all of what I do.”

Reminders that he was in control, I thought, wrapping a blanket around my bare shoulders.

“There was no letter tonight.”

“Perhaps it is at the front desk and they are waiting until morning to deliver it.”

He shook his head. “Chris has already been down to check.”

I bit the inside of my cheeks, realizing that while I’d slept he’d come and gone, without my even noticing.

“Something has happened in Trollus,” he said, his voice sharp with trepidation. “Angoulême wouldn’t have made a move like the one he did tonight if he was not confident that my father could not retaliate.”

I hesitated. “Do you think he’s dead?” And as I had said the words I’d realized I was afraid he’d say yes. That the troll I’d wished dead more times than I could count was now the lesser evil – the only man who stood between Trollus and the blackness of Angoulême and Roland from within, and the relentless hate of Lord Aiden without.

“You tell me.”

I realized I was on my feet and pulling on my dress, though I had no memory of getting out of bed. My skin burned with tension and my head ached with the single-minded purpose of an addict. And I knew what had pulled me from sleep. “He’s alive,” I whispered, my fingers pausing on my buttons. “But he is very desperate.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

I lifted my head. Tristan had turned from the window to face me, eyes filled with a helplessness I’d never seen before. This young man who was undeniably brilliant. Who’d been raised on plots and strategies and schemes; who’d faced down the most dire of predicaments without faltering, was looking to me for an answer.

I ran my tongue over my lips, but it was very nearly as dry as they were. “That necklace matters to Anushka. We need to get it back.”

That had been hours ago. We’d dispatched Chris with a pocketful of gold to track down the stockman and buy back the necklace. We’d tasked Sabine with discovering what she could about the fallout from Esmeralda’s death; most importantly, whether Aiden or my brother had pointed a finger at Tristan. Neither had yet returned, and after discussing every possible contingency, we’d both drifted into our own thoughts.