But on the heels of my own reassurances came the thought that Marc was coming to regret his decision. That his unease was not from the King’s punishment, but rather the costs he must bear for bonding me against the will of everyone. No one was pleased about this union: not his parents, nor my sister, and most especially not Tristan. No one could break our bond and take him away from me, but having to live with his resentment, growing day after day, would be worse.

“Stop it,” I whispered. “Quit imagining trouble when you have more than enough as it is.”

Except there was an insidiousness to having another’s feelings in one’s head, knowing that they were real but unknowing of the cause, and try as I might, I couldn’t cage the thoughts away.

A knock sounded at the door, and I jumped. “Yes?”

A servant appeared, a gown I didn’t recognize draped across her arms. “Good morning, my lady,” she said. “Lord Marc asked that you not be disturbed, but you have a visitor waiting for you downstairs.”

“A visitor?” It could be the twins or my sister, but my skin prickled with the sense that it was someone else.

“Yes, my lady.” The woman’s jaw tightened. “His Grace, the Duke d’Angoulême.”

My father.

I forced food down my throat while the servants laced me into the gown and fixed my hair, but my stomach was flipping with such regularity that I wondered if doing so had been a mistake. The last thing I needed was to vomit on my father’s shoes.

My heels silent on the carpets, I followed the sense of power down to the parlor. Marc’s mother sat stiffly on a sofa, her husband hovering next to her arm. Across from them, and looking entirely at ease, sat my father, cane polished to a high shine and resting across his knees.

“Pénélope,” he exclaimed at the sight of me, leaping to his feet and crossing the room. Marc’s mother rose with equal speed, her hands balling into fists. There was no chance my father hadn’t noticed, but he showed no reaction as he kissed both my cheeks. “Already we feel your absence at home, darling.”

My heart was fluttering like a caged bird, my skin crawling where he gripped my arms. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I would’ve given you time to settle in, but I found that I couldn’t bear the idea of missing your reaction to the delivery of your trousseau.”

“My trousseau.”

“Yes, yes!” He dropped my arms and gestured to the corner of the room where at least half a dozen polished chests sat in orderly rows. “I’ve had your art supplies brought over as well; they are in the room that the Comte has kindly allocated for your use.”

“Art supplies,” I repeated, staring at the chests, knowing I sounded like a fool repeating his words, but he might as well have been speaking a foreign language for how much sense they made to me.