I swallowed hard, trying my best not to think of the bones knitting and reforming, bruises rising and fading within seconds. Or to think about what happened when they did not.

“I can’t recall the last time I bested you at this, Anaïs,” Tristan grumbled, hand dropping from his side. “It’s not very sporting if I’ve no chance at winning. My pleasure in your company is diminished by the broken bones.”

Anaïs smiled and slapped the flat of her blade against the palm of her gloved hand. “Are you suggesting that I let you win, Your Highness?”

“Would that be so dreadful?” He closed the distance between them, his cheeks curving with a smile as he gazed down at her.

For a handful of seconds, her face was filled with the naked adoration of a girl well and truly in love. And my heart broke, the sharp little pieces digging into my soul as I watched her bury the feelings behind a cocky smile, the tip of her blade flicking up to catch him beneath the chin.

“Yes, it would. If you wish to beat me, you’ll merely have to try harder.”

The two stood silent and unmoving, and I knew that a conversation passed between them in the wordless language of those who knew each other well. It was beautiful and wretched, and my eyes moved without thought to the image on my canvas.

“Enough banter.” Marc stepped out of the shadows where he’d been leaning against the wall, nudging the sword he held into both their ribs, driving them apart. “Tristan, I saw Anaïs’s feint plain as day, and you would have, too, if you’d been paying attention.”

My heart beat faster in my chest as he walked between them in my direction. Then he stopped, knocking a fist against an invisible barrier of magic blocking his path. “Anaïs, let me through.”

She blanched. “Oh. Sorry, Marc. I–” Breaking off, her gaze went to mine, then away.

My stomach clenched. Bad enough that she’d been protecting me, but worse that she hadn’t wanted me to know she was doing it.

The guilt on Anaïs’s face. The pity on Tristan’s. I hated both sentiments, but the last thing I wanted was to make my sister feel worse, so I said nothing. Dipping my brush in a pale grey, I turned back to my work, hoping my expression wouldn’t betray me.

Marc stopped in front of my easel, and though I did not take my attention away from my brushstrokes, I felt his presence keenly. My skin prickled and I was sure that even if I had been blind and deaf, I would still have known it was him standing beside me.

“She’s only trying to protect you, Pénélope.”

“And she is wise for it.” I added a touch more black to my grey. “Perhaps if she’d always been so vigilant, circumstances would be different.”

The truth always outs… My father might not have cared to believe it so, but there had always been a certain inevitability of my secret – my affliction – being discovered. If only it had delayed its happening, its discovery might not have even mattered. Certain things could not be undone. Like the bonding of two trolls.