But he had. “The King broke the marriage contract, didn’t he?”

Pénélope wiped her eyes, smearing the kohl lining them. “Within hours. Said he wouldn’t taint Montigny power with weak blood.” Her hands balled into fists. “Which isn’t fair. Nothing about my sister is weak. There isn’t anything wrong with her.”

Except that everyone knew this rare affliction ran in the blood. Magic and our fey nature healed injuries swiftly, and even the wicked slice of iron only delayed the process. Pénélope healed worse than a human, blood refusing to clot, bones unable to knit. And if the injury was iron-inflicted, the black rot was instantaneous. While some with the illness lived to an old age, many bled to death from minor injuries, usually in childhood. While Anaïs herself did not suffer the symptoms, her children might. And in a city where power ruled, such weakness would never be tolerated. It would certainly never be courted.

“She would’ve been a good queen,” Pénélope said. “A great queen, and because of me, the chance has been stolen from her.” Her voice shook. “And perhaps I might’ve forgiven myself for this, but she loves him. And I had to watch her face as she was told that their marriage would never be. That it would be some other girl of the King’s choosing whom Tristan would bond. And that there was no power in this world or the next that would change that fact.”

“The King is cruel.” I hated him as much, if not more, than everyone else in the city, and knowing this only increased my distaste. “But this is his doing, not Tristan’s. Tristan adores Anaïs, and nothing would make him willingly cause her grief.”

“And yet he does!” Pénélope paced back and forth in front of me. “Knowing what he does, he acts as though nothing has changed. Still monopolizes her time and steals kisses from her when he thinks no one is looking. And in doing so makes it seem as though that was all she was ever good for. His entertainment.”

Her anger all of a sudden made a great deal of sense, but I knew that its motivations were misguided. “Pénélope, he doesn’t know about the contract.”

She stopped in her tracks. “You can’t honestly believe that’s true?”

“I’m certain,” I said. “He has his secrets, but this isn’t one of them.”

“I don’t believe that. He collects information like others collect artwork, and this concerns him intimately. How could he not know?”

I shrugged. “He’s fifteen. Marriage is not a matter of much concern to him.” The truth was, it was something he wished to avoid at all costs. In the one conversation I’d had with him about it, he’d said, “Marc, I’m trying to instigate a rebellion to overthrow my own father. I’m a traitor guilty of treason on many levels. How cruel would it be to bond some girl’s life to mine when there is every chance I’ll lose my head in the coming years and take her to the grave along with me.” He’d shaken his head. “I’ll not court the notion, and if he brings it up, I’ll fight it to the bitter end.”