Voices reached my ears.

“It could be nothing more than rumors, you know,” a woman said, and I recognized the voice of the Comtesse Báthory. “Half-blood wishful thinking that swirls and grows until fiction becomes fact because they’re too stupid to realize the difference? You do recall these same sort of whispers grew some twenty years ago, and nothing came of that.”

“They aren’t just rumors.” My father’s voice was sour. “And it isn’t just half-bloods. There is support for the sympathizer cause growing amongst certain of the guilds, and possibly even into the ranks of the aristocracy. For that to be occurring means they’ve found a leader who can do more than just spin words – whoever it is has power.”

The raft wobbled, and I clenched my teeth against a gasp. Then I slowly lifted my head. I was approaching the gazebo; the Comtesse, with her hair piled a foot or more above her head, sat on one of the divans with her back to me. My father sat to her left and my grandmother next to him, but I could see nothing more of their company but the balls of light hanging over their heads.

“And you think this leader is Tristan de Montigny?” Báthory laughed, and the sound made me cringe. She was a murderess of some fame even within Trollus, the stories of what she did to her victims enough to curdle even the King’s blood. He’d come down hard on her recently, which explained why she was in my father’s company. Her interest was in carnage, not in politics.

“My, my, how your tune has changed, Your Grace,” she continued. “Not so long ago you seemed willing to turn a blind eye to any of the boy’s faults if only he kept his sights on your precious Anaïs. Now that we all know her blood is faulty, you seek to throw mud on his character in the most ridiculous of ways.”

My father shifted, his shoulders rigid, and my heart roared in my ears for fear that he would turn and see the distortion of my illusion.

Báthory cackled. “The half-bloods loathe him even more than they do his father,” she said. “From their own lips I’ve heard their disdain, and their fear. Just last month I watched him throw a servant in the river because the girl had spilled a drop of sauce on his sleeve.”

I was almost to the tunnel leading under the gazebo. Digging my fingers and toes into the magic beneath me, I reached up with one hand and caught at the edge, holding myself in place against the current, but blissfully out of sight.

My grandmother made a noise of disgust. “And what fate would’ve befallen the servant if it had been your sleeve, my lady?”

“The river would’ve run red,” Báthory responded, her voice dreamy – clearly missing the point. But I hadn’t. I’d witnessed the same incident and knew for a fact the half-blood had come out of the incident unscathed but for her drenched livery. Tristan could have done much worse, and no one would have cared. But he hadn’t. And, as I bent my memory to the task, I realized he never had injured a half-blood beyond the slice of his cruel words. Just how much of his behavior was an act?