He turned to follow the King, but not before pointing one finger at me. Quietly enough that only I heard, he said, “This is not where it ends, boy.”

I heard the threat.

This was not the last thing he’d take from me.

Chapter 27

Pénélope

Shifting on my stool, I examined the canvas with a critical eye before reaching for my box of pigments to mix a paint the exact shade of blue of the sapphire earrings Marc’s mother had habitually worn. The very same pair that were now sitting on a piece of black velvet on the table to my left.

It needed to be perfect.

The Comtesse, seated at her piano, while the Comte looked on, entranced and deeply in love with his talented wife. It was so clear in my mind’s eye: a scene I’d seen often during my time in their home; but while replicating the image was no challenge, capturing the depth of the sentiment between the pair had thus far eluded me. And without it, the piece was worthless.

And I needed it to be perfect.

It had been two weeks since the pair had died. Two weeks since a blast of magic had torn apart a tavern in the Dregs, killing several half-bloods and leaving my father and his followers standing in a ruin of stone, Marc’s father dead at their feet. The King had questioned my father hard, but all he’d been able to accuse the Comte of was meeting with a group of half-bloods, which was no crime. Those half-bloods who hadn’t been killed had somehow managed to escape and, of course, none had come forward to explain the nature of the meeting.

Still, rumors had swirled that the Comte had been the leader of the sympathizer revolution and had sacrificed his life to protect the cause. But there was no proof, and as the days passed, the chatter and speculation diminished, the King seeming content to let the matter rest.

Marc had told me little about what had happened, and I hadn’t pressed him for the details, his haunted expression and sleepless nights telling me all I needed to know. His father had known what he and Tristan had been up to, and had sacrificed himself in order to protect them.

Stretching my back, I stared up at the skylights of the solar, eyeing the sun glowing yellow and bright, warmth radiating down upon me. Not the real sun, of course, but one of Marc’s creation, wrought with magic and talent. It illuminated the dozens of plants and flowers filling the room with their natural scent and earthiness. They were all grown in hothouses in Trianon, then brought to Trollus with great difficulty, but Marc insisted upon purchasing them. It made him feel better, I thought, to surround me with life, and I absently pressed a hand against the slight curve of my stomach, the presence of magic not my own the greatest comfort of all.

A flicker of motion caught my eye, and I turned my head in time to watch a petal fall from a lily to join the others on the tabletop. Lowering my brush, I stared at the plant, and the others, all slowly dying in the darkness of Trollus, the magic required to keep them alive and thriving lost to iron and mortality.