Just in case.

Because it could be the last time I ever held her. Ever kissed her. Ever heard her voice. And whether an hour or a lifetime passed, I needed to be able to close my eyes and have it be her who filled them.

Chapter 15

Cécile

Our friends waited in the council chambers, all four of them staring at the row of perfume bottles Sabine had tracked down. “Will these do?” she asked, eyes running over my face and making me doubt how well I’d fixed my cosmetics.

“As well as anything,” I replied, picking one up. It smelled overpoweringly floral, and I wrinkled my nose. “All that matters is that they break at the right time. The blood must come in contact with their skin.”

“Not a problem.” Vincent hefted one of the perfume bottles and pretended to throw it at Marc’s head. Marc didn’t so much as flinch. “How close do you need to be, Cécile?”

“Closer than I’d like.” I nibbled on my thumbnail, watching Tristan go to the far side of the table. The seeds of magic had disappeared into one of his pockets, but I felt their presence acutely. When would he take one? What would it do? “We’ll only get one chance to attack them.” And I wasn’t entirely confident I could take down more than one troll at a time. Roland had to be first, because at least my friends could handle Lessa and the others if they had to. But what if Angoulême’s plans had changed? What if there were more trolls with them than we expected?

“Perhaps we might have a contest to see how many we can hit Lessa with before Cécile finishes her spell,” Victoria suggested, interrupting my thoughts.

Tristan coughed. “As the donor supplying your projectiles, I’m going to veto that plan.”

“Does it need to be you?” Marc asked. “You’re taxed as it is with this dome you’ve created. The last thing we need to be doing is bleeding you dry.”

Tristan sat down at the table and rested his chin on his hands, eyes thoughtful. “When Anushka used the spell on me, it was as though I were bound by my own power. Cécile will be manipulating the magic of whomever’s blood she uses, which suggests the more powerful the donor, the better.”

“But Anaïs was able to stop your father,” I reminded him.

“I know.” He frowned. “But better not to take chances.” And before anyone could argue with him, he pulled a knife out of his boot, pushed up his sleeve, and sliced the blade across his forearm where the earlier laceration had long since faded. Angling the tip of the weapon, he watched expressionless as rivulets of crimson ran down the steel and into one of the bottles.

“That’ll do,” I said after the third bottle was full. “The last thing we need is you fainting and Trianon falling while we’re gone.”

Tristan gave a slight roll of his eyes, but didn’t argue as I tied a handkerchief around his arm. As he fussed with the sleeve of his shirt, I caught Sabine’s attention and held it. Watch him for me.