A sure way to save Pénélope, if I had the nerve to take that great a step.

“Is it over?” the King asked my aunt.

“Yes, yes,” Aunt Sylvie grumbled. “What did they say this time?”

They weren’t paying the slightest attention to me, and without stopping to consider the consequences, I created a vial of magic and dunked it into the fountain, stoppering the top and tucking it into my pocket. Some of the liquid had soaked into my glove, and it glowed faintly blue and entirely damning. I jerked my gloves off before anyone noticed.

My uncle turned on me, his face grim. He knows, my mind screamed. He knows you took it.

Yet all he said was: “Go fetch your father for me. We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Except the conversation was already over, because I knew what his answer would be. It was time to take matters into my own hands, no matter what the cost.

Chapter 17

Pénélope

Closing the windows to my room, I pulled off my cloak and shoved it in my closet, along with my little knife. My dress I left on the floor to be laundered, undergarments following suit as I drifted toward the bath, smoothing my hands over my hips as I eyed myself in the mirror. I felt well. Strong. My skin, unmarred by injury, possessed an almost ethereal glow that hadn’t graced me since childhood, not since womanhood had subjected me to a monthly drain on my magic, leaving me exhausted for days and barely recovered by the time the moon cycled around again.

I frowned, my hand hesitating on the tap as I counted back the days. Too many. Too long.

The realization struck me like icy water to the face, and I slowly sank to the tiled floor of the bathing chamber. I stared at my stomach – focusing in on myself in a way I never had before – and faintly, I felt the press of another troll’s magic. “No,” I whispered, even as my heart swelled with unexpected happiness, logic and emotion painfully, horribly, at odds with each other.

I was pregnant.

My father must not find out. If I knew nothing else, I knew that. So for the following five days, I kept to my rooms, feigning illness from my cycle. With magic, I inflicted a small cut on my arm and used the blood to stain my undergarments and the sheets, the bleeding from the injury doing much to make me wan and tired. It terrified me to do it, for I feared the impact on the child. But the fact of the matter was, I feared discovery more.

By necessity, I had to keep the news from Marc for the duration of my internment, my stomach twisted into painful knots as I hid beneath the covers wondering how he would react. How he would feel. What he would say. And above all else, what we would do.

Part of me was deeply afraid, for no troll afflicted with my condition had ever survived pregnancy: miscarriage or childbirth had caused every last one of them to bleed to death, magic incapable of healing the damage. Another part of me was deliriously happy at the idea of having Marc’s child, it fulfilling one of the many secret wishes I’d daydreamed about for longer than I cared to admit. But dreams were not reality, and I knew that I couldn’t keep my pregnancy a secret forever. The truth always outs…