I hesitated, then said, “That’s not why we didn’t tell you.”

Her eyes searched mine, then she shook her head sharply. “You kept it from me because you thought I was only a liability. Not worthy of being part of your grand schemes.”

She was furious, yet I couldn’t help but say, “We did it to protect you.”

“It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?” Her hands balled into fists. “For how long have you all been deceiving me? How long have you been keeping me in the dark over who you really are?”

“You know who I am,” I protested. “It’s Tristan who–”

“How long, Marc?”

I didn’t want to answer, but I knew I owed her the truth. “Years.”

Her jaw trembled, then abruptly tightened, teeth clenched together. “Years?”

“Not long after Roland was born. I don’t know if you remember, but the King made an example of one of the human traders. One that Tristan was especially fond of–”

“I remember,” she said, cutting me off. “The King burned him alive in the middle of the marketplace. Tristan tried to stop him, but…” She lifted a hand to her mouth, and I knew she was both seeing the atrocity and the moment when Tristan had decided to end his father and everyone like him. The moment he’d put on the mask of the contemptuous, half-blood-hating prince in order to protect a plot that, if it succeeded, would change Trollus forever.

“I would’ve helped,” she said, and the regret in her voice was like a knife to my gut. Her whole life had been spent with her father and grandmother whispering in her ear that she was useless – valueless – because of her affliction. Because her magic was weak. Because she didn’t have skills they considered of any use. Now she’d discovered that as much as her sister and her friends might care for her, we thought the same. Because those were the precise reasons we’d kept her in the dark about our plans. That our motivation was to keep her safe didn’t make it any better – we’d still considered her a liability because of her weaknesses. Which, given that we were fighting for an ideology arguing the exact opposite, made us the worst sort of hypocrites.

And we’d also been wrong.

None of us, not even Anaïs, had been brave enough to try to infiltrate one of Angoulême’s covert meetings, but Pénélope had done it. And now we not only knew the depth of his suspicions and the identity of some of his co-conspirators, but we also knew his first plan of attack. That was no small thing.

“We… I was so concerned for keeping you safe that I never stopped to think that doing so would result in more harm than good.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was wrong of us. Of me.”

She lifted her face, eyes searching mine for a heartbeat before her lids closed. “No. My finding out was the mistake. He has reason to question me. If I go home now, in this state, he’ll–”