“Why would she have to pretend? Everyone knows I’m the epitome of wit.” Tristan grinned, then turned on his heel to carve through the crowd, nobility and commoners alike making way for their crown prince.

I followed, but couldn’t help one backward glance over my shoulder at the knot of trolls on the opposite side of the river from the King and Queen, searching their faces for one in particular. Pénélope stood arm-in-arm with her younger sister, Anaïs, their faces nearly touching, both of them laughing over some comedy that none of the nobility grouped around them seemed to appreciate. Although whether they appreciated the humor or not, every eligible man in their vicinity eyed them hungrily.

And for good reason.

Both were beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes of molten silver, but their desirability went beyond appearances. Beyond, even, that they were the daughters of the Duke d’Angoulême, who was reckoned the most influential aristocrat in Trollus after the King.

Pénélope and Anaïs were unafflicted.

Nearly every full-blooded troll was stricken in some way by the iron that bound us to this world, the toxic metal having stolen our ancestors’ immortality and then begun the slow process of poisoning and changing everyone who’d been born since. Madness, illness, disfigurement... Among our generation’s peerage, only the two girls and Tristan remained entirely untouched.

I’d not been so lucky.

As though sensing my scrutiny, Pénélope turned in my direction, and I lifted a hand before jerking it back down to my side as I caught sight of her father watching me over her head.

Tristan suffered no similar self-consciousness, raising a hand to waggle his fingers at the Duke, his mockery catching the attention of many of those around us, who shifted uneasily. The rivalry between the Montignys and the Angoulêmes was old as time, and no one wanted to be caught between them. Neither Tristan nor the Duke could risk it coming to blows with half a mountain’s worth of rock balanced precariously over our heads, but both families had a great deal of practice extracting their pound of flesh without resorting to magic.

“You shouldn’t provoke him,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.

Tristan only shrugged. “Better he think me an obnoxious royal brat than the alternative.”

The alternative. Sympathizer. Revolutionary. Traitor. It was a struggle not to lift a shield of magic to ward our conversation, but that would only make us appear as though we had something to hide. The Duke led the faction set on uprooting and destroying those sympathetic to the half-bloods’ plight, and finding out the identity of the revolution’s leadership was his priority. The last thing we needed was him discovering proof that the leadership was us.

Tristan and I made our way toward the palace gates, the illuminators working quickly to fill the crystal sconces, the magic having been extinguished for the sake of the ceremony. The lights revealed sections of white stonework, but the rest of the enormous building remained consigned to shadow. Much like the rest of Trollus. Much like me.