“But she was not, and they are not,” he said. “And Anaïs blames herself for what happened. It was her blade that shattered.”

“And his that broke it,” I hissed, furious that my sister should feel guilt when Tristan did not.

“Do you think he doesn’t know that?”

I lowered my brush, not wanting to touch this particular piece with anger in my heart. “Can we please not discuss it? Already it weighs upon every aspect of my life, and I hoped to find some respite from it here.”

“Of course.”

Vincent and Victoria’s manor was the unspoken neutral ground between us all. The one place in Trollus where we forgot the alliances and rivalries of family, blood, and rank, and where only our friendship mattered. I glanced up to where the fifteen-year-old twins each stood silently balanced on one foot on the wall surrounding the courtyard, faces bent in concentration as they carefully removed one block at a time from a vertical puzzle floating between them. They were giants, standing head and shoulders above even Marc, who was tall, their rare condition having killed their mother in childbirth. Their father had died days later from the shock of the bond breaking. The two had been raised by half-blood servants with only minimal interference from the crown, content to share the barony that was their birthright. As such, their politics were very much based on their own unique views of our small world. Friendship mattered a great deal to them, and they had no tolerance for infighting between us six.

“May I see what you’re working on?” Marc asked.

My heart beat a little faster at the question, but if I hadn’t been ready for him to view it, I wouldn’t have brought the canvas. “If you like.”

He came around the easel, and I held my breath, waiting for his reaction. I’d been working on it before the accident, but had only recently been able to complete the finishing touches.

He stiffened, and my heart sank. “You don’t care for it?”

“No. It is wretched to look upon.”

His voice was strangled and strange in my ears, and mortification flooded my veins. Always I was shy to show my work to others, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought that Marc would be the critic from whom I’d draw harsh words. I wanted to snatch up the canvas and run, but where would I go? Rather than a haven, my home was now a hell bent on punishing me for my weaknesses.

“Of all the subjects you might have chosen, why did you paint me?”

The plea in his voice stole the breath from my chest. Rising to my feet, I let everything in my hands fall to the ground and caught hold of his sleeve. “Why shouldn’t I paint you?”

“Because no matter how good your work, it isn’t anything that anyone would want to see.”

“Why not?” I asked, hating his words. “I always want to look upon my friends, but you make it so difficult, which makes this painting more meaningful. Because it’s made from the precious few glimpses I’ve been privileged enough to have. I paint those I care about.”