“If you two hadn’t provided such a timely distraction, the Regent wouldn’t be dead,” Tristan retorted. “And your clue to Angoulême’s intended hiding place is hardly helpful. ‘The faces of Anaïs’s ancestors?’” He shook his head sharply. “It could be the ruins of one of their old properties or a stockpile of artwork and possessions. She might not even have meant her family specifically, but rather something related to the fey. Nor need it be on the Isle: for all we know, he intends to catch a ship to the continent and run things from there. Distance means little when one has a name.”

It was then that I tuned them out, their bickering nothing but a drone of noise in the background. My cheek stung and I was exhausted from days without sleep, but I knew if I closed my eyes, all I would see was Roland walking across the Isle and slaughtering as he went. Tristan and I had unleashed him on the world, and what were we doing to stop him? Fighting amongst ourselves.

“Well?”

I blinked, realizing that everyone was staring at me. “Pardon?”

Tristan’s face darkened further. “What do you suggest we do?”

I swallowed into the empty pit that was my stomach. “We can’t hope to fight a war on two fronts and win. Your father is the lesser evil. For now, we need to join forces with him to stop Angoulême and Roland.”

I swayed against the wave of emotion that smashed into me, and it was an effort to meet Tristan’s eyes. The room became uncomfortably hot, the itchy tingle of too much magic in too small of a space marching across my skin.

“No.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but everyone heard it. Stepping around Sabine, he walked out of the room.

I tried to go after him, but Marc stepped into my path. “Let him go.” He nodded once at Victoria, and she swiftly departed. “She’ll calm him down.”

“How many people will have to die before he realizes he’s making a mistake?” I asked, rubbing a hand across my face. It came away coated in gold glitter – remnants of my costume from a performance that seemed a lifetime ago.

Marc caught hold of my elbow and led me over to the table. “Sit.” To Sabine, he said, “She needs to eat something – can you arrange for that?”

She didn’t answer, but her shoes made soft little thuds as she crossed the room. Marc sat next to me, and though he was silent, his presence was as much a comfort as it had always been.

“It is hard for any of us to imagine Thibault as an ally,” he eventually said. “But for Tristan…”

“I understand that.” I rested both elbows on the table. “I hate him, too. He’s hurt me. Hurt those I care about.”

“Do you understand?”

I lifted my head, surprised.

“I do not wish to marginalize the harm Thibault has caused you,” he said, gloved finger tracing a knot in the wood of the table. “But you’ve been under his thumb for a matter of months, whereas we’ve been there our entire lives, Tristan especially. Almost his entire life has been predicated upon the belief that his father is the enemy – the man he needed to defeat at whatever cost. To set that aside – even if it is the correct choice – is no small thing.”