“It was beautiful.”

You are beautiful. And I was glad the shadows cast by my hood allowed me to watch her openly, for a lovelier girl I’d never seen. Her inky hair was coiled in a multitude of braids set with jet pins, revealing her long graceful neck and delicate collarbone. Our fey nature made us all difficult to harm, but there were times she seemed as fragile to me as the glass flowers in our gardens. And should I ever have the privilege to touch her, I’d do so with equal care. “It was,” I managed to say.

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like?”

I shrugged, scuffing my boot against the ground. It was as close to a lie as the magic running through me would allow, because the truth was, I thought about it all the time. Specifically, I thought about what it would be like to be bonded to her.

“I wish…” Her voice faltered, and I opened my mouth to ask what it was that she wished, desperate to have some part of her, even if it were only something as small as a secret desire. But before I could say anything, I felt the press of power coming up behind me, and heard the Duke’s sharp voice say, “Come now, Pénélope. There were others who would have a moment of your time.”

Her eyes flashed with irritation. “Father, I’m–”

“Now.”

She flinched, and I turned with a mind to tell him to leave her alone, but his cold gaze froze my tongue. He looked me up and down, his lip curling up with distaste as he reached out to take Pénélope’s arm. But before he could drag her off to parade in front of whomever he desired a liaison with, the crowd of guests pushed in close, trapping him in place.

A space was forming in the courtyard, Tristan and Anaïs at the center, swords in hand, both their expressions gleeful.

“A duel,” someone shouted, and then my Aunt Sylvie started calling the odds. “Place your bets,” she shrieked, then pointed a finger at the Duke. “Your usual, Édouard? Or are you too busy meddling?”

Angoulême’s expression soured, and he waved a hand in her direction as though to drive her away. “Yes, yes. A thousand on Anaïs.”

“Done!”

The guests pressed tighter, and I found myself next to Pénélope. Her skirts brushed against my leg, and I held my breath, barely seeing as Tristan and Anaïs harried each other across the yard to the roaring approval of the aristocracy. Instead, my eyes tracked downward. Her dark purple gown was cut low enough to reveal the soft curve of her breasts, the black lace trim stark against her skin.

Sword clashed against sword, and I jerked my head up, watching Anaïs dive out of the way of Tristan’s blade, her cheek scraping against the paving stones. She was back on her feet in a flash, skin streaked with blood, but her magic already healing the injury, face unblemished within seconds. She lunged at Tristan, sending him stumbling, the crowd shrieking as she landed a blow against his wrist, the crack of bone audible above their noise. He swore and switched to fighting with his left arm, slamming his weapon against hers with brute strength rather than skill, barely managing to hold her off while his wrist healed.