“As you should be.” Marie extracted a handkerchief and wiped the mess from her son’s face. “It’s your fault.”

The retort that formed in my mind died on my lips as Cécile gave a slight shake of her head. She could defend herself, but had chosen not to.

“You’ve a place to keep him?” I didn’t wait for Marie’s nod, before continuing, “Take him there now.” To Vincent, I said, “Make sure no one sees him.”

I waited for my friend to leave with Aiden and Marie before saying more, purposefully refraining from looking Cécile’s direction. I could sense the anticipation on her – that there was something she wanted to tell me or needed to say, but whatever it was could wait. And if she thought otherwise, she could bloody well order me to listen to her, since she clearly had no compunctions against doing so.

Marc stood next to Sabine – an unlikely pair, though neither appeared discomforted. “How long do we have?” I asked him, not wasting time on pleasantries. He and the twins must have broken out of Trollus moments after the curse was lifted, then come to Trianon at full sprint with whatever warnings they had for me. If they were here, then I’d no doubt that the frontrunners of my father’s soldiers were right behind them.

Marc didn’t answer, only extracted a letter from a pocket and handed it over. I recognized the seal as my father’s, the wax smeared as though applied with great haste. “What is this?”

“I don’t know.” He rocked slightly on his heels. “All he said was that it was to be brought to you with no delays.”

My fingers hesitated over the seal, the paper feeling heavy in my hands.

“Tristan–”

“Later.” I cut Cécile off before she could say more, and then snapped the seal.

Tristan,

You have succeeded where five centuries of rulers have failed, as I knew you would. All is forgiven. Return posthaste to Trollus with Cécile so that you can be reinstated as heir. Your people need you here. As do I.

T

Everything in the room fell away as I read and reread the lines, the paper in my hand trembling.

“Tristan, what does it say?” Marc’s question filled my ears, though I sensed he’d had to repeat it more than once. I cleared my throat, but the words caught, so I cleared it again and read the note. As I did, I could hear my father’s voice and see his gloating face, and all I could think of was that iron-rimmed square on my aunt’s Guerre set where the onyx piece with my face sat. How my father considered me a puppet to be played as he saw fit. How he believed he could pull my strings until I’d accomplished what he wanted, never once caring about the cost, then call me back to heel.

I hated him.

I hated him.

I hated him.

“Tristan.” I felt Cécile’s hand on my sleeve. “Tristan, listen to me. Your father isn’t the enemy.”