“Your maid returned some time ago with your artwork, my lady. I had her put everything in your studio.”

I jumped, turning to find Lessa standing next to the base of the grand staircase at the center of the foyer. The King’s bastard half-blood daughter smiled sweetly and curtsied, and as always, the gesture felt like mockery. She was required to wear grey, but her silk dress was elaborate enough to be called a gown, the red sash marking her as the property of our house trimmed with garnets of the same hue. She was the prize jewel of my grandmother’s possessions, and a hundred times more powerful than I. Demanding deference from her verged on absurdity, and we both knew it. “Thank you. Is Anaïs returned?”

Lessa shook her head, the gleam in her eye making me nervous. She bore a strong resemblance to Tristan, but for reasons I could not explain, she reminded me very much of her younger half-brother, the mad Prince Roland. “I’d like a bath before I dress for dinner, if you would,” I said.

The corner of her mouth turned up. “Of course. I’ll arrange for it to be ready after His Grace is finished with you.”

A slick of sweat broke out on my palms. “He wishes to speak to me?”

“He’s waiting for you in the parlor.”

I nodded, straightened my dress, and paused in front of a mirror long enough to wipe away my smeared cosmetics. Then I went in.

My father stood before a large portrait I’d painted of my mother, his back to me. She’d died in a sluag attack, and I sometimes wondered why he bothered to keep the painting, for he’d shown almost no remorse at her passing.

“Father.” I curtseyed deeply, holding the position until he turned.

“Pénélope.” His tone was light, but my skin prickled with the feel of magic fueled by anger, and dread seeped into my heart.

Coming over, he pulled me into an embrace, his chin resting next to my ear. “You were always my better daughter. Sweet. Charming. Obedient. If I could’ve given you all your sister’s attributes and retained your personality, what a magnificent tool you would’ve been. But rarely do power and tractability walk hand in hand.” He squeezed me tighter. Enough that it hurt. “Why did you have to change?”

I couldn’t breathe. Magic clogged my mouth and nose, and I struggled, trying to extract myself from his grip, but he was too strong, my body and magic pinioned. He’d warned me what would happen if I allowed my secret to be exposed, but my fear of punishment had waned over the passing weeks. I’d been a fool to allow it to do so.

“Was it not enough that you ruined your sister’s chances of becoming Queen,” he asked softly. “You had to try to turn the prince against her as well?”

I struggled harder, my fingers clawing ineffectually at the sleeves of his coat. Then, over his shoulder, I saw my grandmother appear at the entrance to the parlor, and relief flooded my heart. She was the only person my father listened to, and I knew she wouldn’t let him hurt me. Not physically. My eyes latched onto hers, pleading silently for help even as my lungs began to burn.