My hope shattered into a million pieces, tearing through my insides on the flood of my too-fast pulse. “You can’t know that.” They were weak words. A pathetic defense. And that, more than anything he’d said, made me lunge for him, the dagger in my pocket aimed at his throat.

But magic caught me and I hung suspended in the air, thrashing and struggling, until I finally tried to throw the blade at him in desperation. It only bounced off a shield of magic, clattering to the floor.

“Pénélope, Pénélope.”

I tried to scream, praying one of the servants would come even as I hoped that they’d stay hidden, because he wouldn’t hesitate to kill them.

“You are the poisoned cup. The knife in the dark. The pillow pressed against a sleeping man’s mouth.” The room trembled with his laughter, though his gaze was cold and dead as a snake’s. “You are the trump card that no one knew I had.”

My feet touched the ground, and I caught myself against the table as my ankle rolled.

“And once Marc is dead, Tristan will have no choice but to step out of the safety of the shadows to take the reins of his little revolution, and then it’s only a matter of time until the proof of his treason is mine. Until the throne is mine and the Montigny line is no more.” Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door, cane thump thumping against the ground. “Congratulations, Pénélope. It seems you are a true Angoulême after all.”

Chapter 28

Marc

I sat across from my uncle at his desk, mindlessly giving him the necessary reports, answering his questions, and giving my opinions on the comings and goings in Trollus and beyond.

And I hated every minute of it.

Not the work. But the fact that I was sitting in my father’s chair while he and my mother both lay dead in the tombs beneath Trollus. And it was my fault.

“Marc!” The King’s voice ripped me from my thoughts, and I blinked at him, wondering how many times he’d said my name. “Yes?”

“The witch trials? Numbers?”

I rummaged through the pages I’d brought with me, extracting the report on the number of human witches who’d been hunted down and executed by our agents. “Four,” I said. “None Anushka.”

“Obviously,” he snapped. “I’m quite certain that even in your distracted state, you would’ve noticed if the curse had been broken.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I–”

He cut me off with a wave of his hand, giving his head a sharp shake. “Your father was dying, Marc. It was inevitable.”

I bit the inside of my cheeks, furious at his words. My father had been the King’s friend, and the only emotion he’d shown over his death was irritation at losing his advisor. How dead inside did he have to be to care so little? I opened my mouth to ask as much, damn the consequences, when Pénélope’s fear, terrible and horrifying, lanced through me.