“An expensive habit.”

My hand twitched, a drop of paint falling to stain the silk of my skirts. My father stood just inside the doorway, gloved hand curved around a dying rose bloom. Though he’d shown me nothing but kindness and courtesy since my bonding, would not, I knew, lay a hand on me given I was bonded to the King’s nephew, trepidation still prickled along my skin. Only a fool would believe he was through with me yet.

Rising to my feet, I curtseyed. “Your Grace.”

“Now, now. None of that.” Crossing the room, he took my elbow and pushed me gently down onto my stool before pulling another next to me and settling onto it, cane balanced across his knees. “Don’t strain yourself on my account, dearest.”

Leaning forward, he silently examined my canvas, a slight furrow forming in his brow. Though I’d never seen him create any art himself, he had a good eye for it, and my work had always been the lone aspect of my person for which he’d shown any paternal pride. “It’s good,” he finally said, “but…” The furrow deepened as he tried to pinpoint what was lacking in the portrait before shrugging and giving up. “It’s a shame.”

“Their deaths, you mean?” I picked at the paint stain with magic, carefully extracting tiny fragments from between the fibers of the silk.

“Hers.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, his focus still on my painting, and I took the opportunity to study him. Both Anaïs and I favored him over our mother with our high cheekbones, squared jaws, and straight noses, and I touched my bottom lip, annoyed that it possessed the same full curve as his did. The only sign of age was a touch of grey at his temples, which did nothing to mar his perfect troll beauty. It was the greatest lie, the greatest deceit. Like the bloom of a poisonous flower or the multihued bands on a venomous snake. Lovely. Deadly.

“She was extraordinarily talented,” he continued. “She caught the eye of many for that reason alone, and yet she chose him.”

“She loved him,” I said, careful to keep my emotions in check. “Besides, her death was your doing, Father.”

“I didn’t kill the Comte. He fell on his own proverbial sword and took her to the grave along with him.” Shifting on his stool, my father caught my gaze. “All that talent and grace snuffed out in an instant for love. I wonder if in those moments when her heart stuttered, but before her light went out, if she loved him still. Or if she hated him for stealing away her future.”

I did not respond. His meaning was clear enough. Hurtful enough.

“But it’s of no matter.”

I sincerely doubted that. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t a father visit his daughter to see how she fares in her new life?” He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Though I see for myself that you are faring well – far better than anyone, including me, anticipated. Married life must suit you.”