I toyed with the arm of my chair, the speech I’d been planning since I’d spoken with my father sticking in my throat, his warning ringing in my ears: think long and hard about what it will mean for your friendship if you ask for his permission and he refuses to give it.

Because he would refuse to give it. Not out of cruelty, but because his commitment to saving our people consumed him and he’d not willingly allow anything to jeopardize our cause. There was nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice for what he saw as the greater good of Trollus, and he demanded the same from me, Anaïs, and the twins. He didn’t want anything more from life.

But I did.

As if sensing my thoughts, Tristan said, “Another three years. Maybe four. Then this will all be over.”

Logically, I knew that it wasn’t such a long time. But it felt like an eternity. Longer than an eternity, because even though once Tristan was on the throne there should be no reason for him to deny my wish to be with Pénélope, I knew there would be. Too easily my father’s haggard face came to mind, the pressures of a lifetime as the right hand to the King dragging him to an early death. Tristan was not his father, but in his own way, he was equally as demanding. Was that to be my fate?

Was it selfish of me to want more?

A loud knock sounded at the door, and Tristan’s magic shifted, allowing the visitor to enter. He glanced up once, then did a double take, so I turned.

At first I thought it was Pénélope, not Anaïs, but the weight of the power that came with her was distinctly that of the younger Angoulême sister. She was wearing a purple gown, ribs corseted tight and hair hanging to her waist in elaborate curls. Her silver eyes were rimmed with kohl, full lips stained a pale pink that made them very… kissable in appearance.

“Another Angoulême party that I’m not invited to?” Tristan asked.

“No.” Anaïs flung herself with force into the chair next to me, then wrenched off the heeled shoes she wore and threw them across the room. “I’m seducing you.”

“I see. In that case, carry on.” A faint smile formed on Tristan’s face, and I fought the urge to kick him under the table.

Anaïs needed no defenders. “Your Highness,” she said, “if you are under the mistaken impression that I can’t beat you bloody wearing skirts and heels, I’d be happy to demonstrate otherwise.”

“No need for that. I believe you.”

Both of us remained silent, waiting for the teeming swirl of Anaïs’s power to settle, along with her temper.

“My father wants to put Roland on the throne,” she finally said.

“Why would he want that? Roland’s insane and as much a Montigny as I am myself.”

“Because he believes that he can control him.”

“A puppet king.” A frown creased Tristan’s forehead. “Can he control him?”