“He thinks Tristan is up to something,” I said slowly, considering just how much I wanted to reveal. “He wants me to help him find out what.”

“Don’t help him, Cécile.” I could hear the plea in his voice. I had bargaining power here, and I was damn well going to use it.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” I said. “Better yet, give me one good reason why I should side with Tristan at all.”

“Because it is in his best interest to keep you alive.”

“Why?” I asked. “What difference does it make to him? I didn’t break the curse – you would think he’d be happy to see me dead.”

Marc shook his head. “He is bonded to you. If you die, he dies.”

Realization slowly sunk in. “And if he dies?”

“Your heart may just stop. And if it doesn’t, you’ll do everything in your power to stop it yourself.”

“I see,” I whispered. If Angoulême killed Tristan, I would die. I closed my eyes, barely noticing as Marc steadied my arm. In my naiveté, I had nearly handed away my life. That was why the King had instituted a law forbidding anyone from harming me – not because Tristan could feel my pain, but because if I died, so did his son.

“But you’re alive.” I met Marc’s gaze. “Even though she died.”

“Only because stronger powers wouldn’t let me die.” Marc’s voice was grim. The light drifted around him, and in a rare moment, his twisted face was illuminated. But it held no horror for me now. “Don’t help him, Cécile. Stay out of the politics and trust that Tristan will keep you alive.”

I thought of the parchments tucked safely against my backside and of the excitement on Tristan’s face as he showed them to his friends. Thought about how he had saved Chris’s life and the words he had said to me in the garden. What side are you on, Tristan?

Hours later, long after I had drifted off to sleep surrounded by the sumptuous silks of Tristan’s bed – my bed now, it would seem – I snapped awake, panic-stricken. Not my panic, no, it was his. Tristan had discovered his papers were missing, I sensed it. In the blackness of the room, my eyes fixed on the drapes where I had undone the stitching and hidden the documents between heavy layers of fabric. I had done the work in the darkness, afraid that someone might be watching me through one of the hidden peepholes into the room. Years of needlework under my grandmother’s watchful eyes had allowed me to restitch the hem by feel alone. No one would guess they were there.

Lying back against the pillows, I tried to calm my pounding heart. I had the leverage I needed to confront Tristan tomorrow – to demand the truth. I just needed the courage to do it.

Chapter 14

Cécile

Sleep eluded me the rest of the night and, in the wee hours, I rose and went in search of Tristan. I found him in the palace stable yard, still dressed in the finery he had worn the night before. Resting my elbows on the smooth stone railing of the balcony, I watched him from afar. He sat on a square of stone that may have once served as a mounting block, elbows resting on his knees. His face was still and drawn and dark shadows from lack of sleep lurked under his eyes. With one finger, he slowly traced the gold marks lacing his other hand.