I followed the sense of power through the gardens until I caught sight of the three walking slowly along the paths. My uncle had his hands clasped behind his back and was listening to my Aunt Sylvie, but the conversation was shielded, so I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

I silently rehearsed my speech, explaining the danger Pénélope was in, appealing to the value of every full-blooded life in our declining world; to the benefit of caring for Anaïs’s sister, given she was set to inherit the duchy and would be a valuable ally to Tristan; to–

“Quit lurking in the shadows, boy!” Aunt Sylvie’s voice made me jump, and I obediently walked toward them, trying to calm the rapid thunder of my heart in my chest.

“Your Majesties; Your Grace,” I bowed low.

“Nephew.” The King fixed me with a piercing stare, as though I’d interrupted something far more meaningful than a stroll through the gardens. “What do you want?”

“I…” The words froze on my tongue. Coming here had been stupid. A waste of time. What I’d intended to say appealed to an individual’s empathy and innate decency, of which my uncle had none.

“He’s here about Angoulême’s girl,” Aunt Sylvie said, gesturing for me to come into the open space, the center of which was dominated by the Élixir fountain, the blue liquid glowing in the stone basin.

“Anaïs? What about her?” There was an unexpected edge to my uncle’s voice, a frown furrowing his brow until my aunt shook her head and said, “Pénélope.”

I scuffed my boot toe against the ground. “He treats her poorly.”

The King’s face soured. “If he treated her poorly, she’d be dead.”

“He threatens her life.”

“Words.”

Frustration burned across my skin, because I was limited in what I could say. My uncle was the last person to whom I could confess that Pénélope had been set to spy on me in the hopes of proving I was a traitor. “What if they aren’t? And even if they aren’t, she lives in terror. It’s not right.”

The Queen made a soft clucking noise of dismay, but said nothing.

“And what precisely do you wish me to do about it?”

“Take her out of his home,” I said. “Make her a ward of the state.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

Because it was the right thing to do.

Not waiting for my answer, he said, “Just how well do you think Angoulême will take me plucking his eldest daughter from his home? Embarrassing him before all of Trollus?”

“What do you care?” My voice was unintentionally sharp. “You don’t even like him.”

“Like him?” His eyebrow rose. “What difference does that make? The Duke is a powerful troll who holds the ears of many other powerful trolls. Anger him, and I anger them.”

“So you won’t do it because you’re afraid of him.”

A soft hiss of warning escaped Aunt Sylvie’s lips, but it was the Queen, my Aunt Matilde, who rested her hand on my uncle’s arm, as though her delicate grip could restrain him. Then I thought of Pénélope, and thought maybe it could.