“Ha…” My throat strangled the word, because it wasn’t habit. The shadows made me brave.

“How you look is part of what makes you the way you are,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Kiss her.

The clocks in the palace chimed the midnight hour, urging me on. I felt her rise on her toes, leaning into me, her lips slightly parted.

Then abruptly, she took a step back and asked, “Is Tristan very cross with me?”

The moment shattered.

“No,” I stammered, struggling for words for the first time that night. “He… He understands that, umm… circumstances have been difficult for you.”

“No doubt he’s given it little thought,” she said. “His mind is probably consumed with greater concerns?”

The question was tentative, but it was there, and I felt like an idiot. For letting myself forget that there were ulterior motives and schemes swirling beneath what I’d stupidly believed was the most perfect night of my life. For letting myself believe she might want this as much as I did.

And Anaïs’s words echoed through my thoughts: Pénélope’s survival depends on you, Marc. On how well you toe the line between giving her enough information to be valuable and giving her so much you betray our cause.

Tristan would have known exactly what to say, how to give an answer that was anything but. I wasn’t so gifted with duplicity. “Maybe you let your family’s prejudices color your views. You should make your own judgments.”

My voice was unintentionally sharp, my answer sounding like a reprimand, and she flinched, then said, “I didn’t mean… That is to say, I know he’s your friend, so obviously…”

“I didn’t… I know he can be frustrating…”

Our words tumbled over each other like a mess of spilled paint, ugly and unintended, and we both abruptly fell silent, the air burning with magic from our collective unease.

“It’s late,” Pénélope blurted out. “I should’ve been home hours ago.”

“I’ll walk you back.” I was desperate to diffuse the tension, to reclaim what we’d had, but she shook her head. “Better you didn’t. My father…”

Will grill you for every word I said.

“Goodnight, Marc,” she finished, and before I could respond, she disappeared into the garden.

Chapter 8

Pénélope

The walk back to my home was a blur, my mind racing and sweat pooling beneath my breasts as I debated what to tell my father.

If there was anything to tell him at all.

Despite my intentions to approach the evening with a mind for discovering some small details that would appease my father, the night had gotten away from me from the first moment Marc had walked onto the bridge.

For years, I’d dreamed of being courted – to be half of one of the young couples strolling down the river pathways, hand in hand, heart racing with anticipation of a stolen kiss beneath a bridge. Imagined what I would wear and what would be said. The taste of wine and sweets on my lips, and music in my ears. But my imagination had been a pale comparison to what I’d experienced tonight.