“It does.” I wanted to get up, to move. To run, even. Because all his little comments were dovetailing toward something. And that something wouldn’t be good. “Does that disappoint you?”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The truth is, Pénélope, that I came here today to tell you how very proud of you I am.”

My breath caught in my chest, all thoughts, all words, escaping me. Because the things he valued… I wanted no part of them.

“Everyone believes Anaïs is my golden child: powerful, beautiful, and ambitious. But she has not accomplished half of what you’ve done for this family. For me.”

No.

“Despite all the marks against you, here you sit: bonded to the young Comte who is nephew of the King, who is master of all that comes and goes from Trollus, who is cousin and confidant of the heir, and above all, who is the stalking horse for the true leader of the half-bloods’ revolution.”

Don’t react. Don’t say anything.

He patted my cheek. “I see you’ve finally learned to play the game, dearest. But it’s too late. His father’s sacrifice might have denied me proof, but I know Marc is heading those meetings, and I know that standing behind him in the shadows is Prince Tristan himself.”

Picking up my brush, I set to cleaning off the paint and storing my tools away. “Fascinating theories, Father. Yet for someone with such great certainty, you seem to be doing little about it.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” he said. “Because you’re going to do it for me.”

My pulse roared in my ears, my heart threatening to tear out of my chest. “And what exactly is it that you believe I’m going to do for you?”

“You’re going to kill Marc Biron, Comte de Courville, for me.”

The room faded in and out of focus, and I gripped the sides of my stool to keep from toppling over.

“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll even manage to live long enough to bring this delightful child into the world. But we all know you’ll never survive to raise it. The babe will kill you. And you, my beloved daughter, will kill him.” He cackled with undisguised mirth, and the jars of paint sitting on the table all cracked as my magic sought an outlet.

“Is that why you had the library purged?” I demanded, hoping the accusation would elicit some clue that there had been something there. Maybe not a cure, but something that would allow me to survive. Something I could hunt down now that I knew it existed. “Was there something in those pages that could help me?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, along with something else. Fear. But it was gone in an instant. “There was nothing in those books that could cure you, Pénélope. There is nothing that can save you. Do you think I didn’t look?”

And he could not lie.