“That’s how it feels.” Closing her eyes, she reached up and pressed her hand against her shoulder, skin still marked with black streaks of iron rot. “I hate him.”

My heart sank, and I wished for a moment that it were possible her words were a lie. Because too easily could I imagine how this would go. The choice I’d have to make. Although even calling it a choice was a mockery of the word, as I knew I’d forsake her in favor of my cousin. Tristan and I were bound by blood and friendship, but more than that, we were bound by a cause. A shared vision of a thriving Trollus, not a city falling into decay. Abandoning him would have disastrous and long-reaching implications for thousands of half-bloods, while losing Pénélope’s friendship would only hurt me. “It was an accident, Pénélope. You must know that he’d never wish harm upon you.”

“And yet how fortuitous for him that it did.”

She stepped to one side and started to walk around me, but I caught her arm, and asked, “What are you talking about? How could he possibly benefit from…” Realization dawned upon me. “Anaïs. This is about her, isn’t it?”

Her jaw tightened. “I ruined her life.”

There were only a few half-blood servants in the streets near us, but I could take no chances of anyone noting this conversation. Motioning for Pénélope to follow, I led her back onto the Marquis’s property, quietly shutting the gate and walking deeper into the neglected grounds. Stopping next to a fountain half-heartedly spraying murky water, I cloaked our conversation and said, “I know she is enamored with him, but she had to have known there was little to no chance of it happening while Thibault rules. He and your father despise each other, and the rivalry between your families goes back millennia. Neither would have consented to such a match.”

Pénélope exhaled softly. “And yet they did.”

Astonishment snaked its way through me, but in its wake came excitement, because surely if Angoulême would consent to marrying Anaïs to Tristan he’d be amicable to a match between Pénélope and me, given my father was the Queen’s brother. But anger chased the thought away. It wasn’t the same. My cousin was the greatest prize in Trollus: untouched by all the afflictions plaguing our race and destined to be king.

I was not.

Besides, whether Angoulême desired the match mattered far less to me than whether Pénélope did herself. And I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t imagine her wanting more from me than friendship.

“Please say you will not speak of it to anyone,” she continued, interrupting my thoughts. “She’s been hurt by this enough as it is without all of Trollus knowing the truth.”

“What is the truth?” I asked.

Pénélope sighed. “The deal was struck in secret some years ago,” she said. “Anaïs and Tristan were to be bonded when they were both seventeen. For a long time, only the King, my father, and my grandmother knew the contract was in existence. And by necessity, Anaïs and I knew as well. My father made it clear to us that my affliction must remain hidden – that nothing mattered more. And to ensure it, I was to always be cautious and sedate. Reclusive–” she swallowed hard “–so that when I came of age, no one would notice my regular absences from society. That I should never ask or expect to be wed, nor seek intimacy with another, because of a certainty, they would discover my illness. And that if I did all those things, my sister would become Queen of Trollus, and my father would suffer me to live. All that mattered was that the King not find out until after they were bonded. And better yet, never at all.”