But it came at a cost, and that cost put a pall on my dream, as reality often does.

Tristan hadn’t spoken to me once since the night Pénélope and I had bonded. He took great pains to avoid me, which was fine at first, because I was angry with him. But it was only days before his absence began to prey upon me, the loss of his companionship leaving a void that grew harder and harder to ignore, though I did my best. Pénélope, however, was not fooled.

“Keep trying,” she said, stoppering a vial of paint. “He’ll come around. He needs you more than you need him, I think.”

“And Anaïs?” I asked, thinking of the cold politeness my friend directed at me whenever she came to visit her sister. “Will she?”

To that, Pénélope made only a noncommittal sound, though the flash of sorrow I felt from her was answer enough. No.

It felt like everyone was angry with me.

Except, perhaps, the Duke d’Angoulême.

He’d spared no expense proving just how pleased he was with me. With us.

Every aristocrat in Trollus had been invited to the celebration, as well as higher-ranking commoners and guild masters, the gates to the Angoulême manor thrown wide, the grounds lit so brilliantly I half wondered if the glow seeped through the rock above. Music filled the air, drowning out the falls, and the Artisans’ Guild filled the sky with vivid displays of color that shifted and changed with every passing minute.

I hated all of it.

Pénélope and I stood outside the front doors, greeting every well-wisher and pretending not to see the pity on nearly every face that passed through. Though the pity was better than the poorly disguised glee on the faces of others.

The Duke was worst of all, working his way through the crowd, all laughter and charm, his mother on his arm.

“Why?” Pénélope muttered. “Why is he so happy about this? What does he think he can gain?”

It was a conversation we’d had countless times over the past week. Yes, there was a rift between me and my cousin, but no one had any reason to believe that was permanent. This was by no means our first argument, and we’d always resolved our differences before. It certainly wasn’t enough to justify the Duke’s glee.

“If he believes I’m going to betray your confidence, he’s sorely mistaken,” she said under her breath. “He no longer has that right. No longer has that power.”

There was heat in her voice. Certainty. But I knew she was reluctant to leave the house unless in the company of me or my parents lest her father or one of his minions should catch her alone and try to force damning information from her lips. I personally thought such a move unlikely, but fear was not always rational.

And there was always the chance she was right.

“I wish you’d let me promise to hold my tongue,” she said, after kissing the cheek of one of her cousins and sending him off in search of a wine her father had brought in at great expense.