“Anything.”

“I need you to bring Tristan to see me.”

It felt like days, though it was probably a matter of hours, when the bed shifted beneath me, the motion pulling me from my fugue, and I opened my eyes to see Anaïs sitting next to me. “He’s here,” she said. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No.”

Her lips parted as though she wished to argue, then she nodded and left the room. A moment later, Tristan appeared, invisible fingers shutting the door behind him. But there he remained, gaze shifting around the room, taking in everything with the exception of me.

“Do you intend to make me shout?” I whispered.

He glared at the carpet, then gave an aggrieved sigh and crossed the room to stand at the foot of the bed. “What do you want, Pénélope?”

The words were sharp, cruel, as was his tone. Yet I knew better than to take issue with them, because at their heart resided a grief nearly of the magnitude of my own. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have seen that. Would only have seen the cold unyielding surface. The flawlessness. The power. Now I knew differently, and instead I saw a boy with a vision for a better world, who’d buried everything good and decent about himself away in order to protect it. Who, despite being surrounded by others nearly every waking minute, felt very much alone.

“I want to save Marc’s life.”

He snorted and gave the bedpost a soft kick. “A bit late for that now, don’t you think? If only such selflessness had made an appearance earlier, none of us would be in this position.”

“I’m interested in your help, not your criticism.”

“And if I tell you they go hand in hand?”

I was too tired for this. “Do you truly wish for equality amongst all within Trollus, Tristan? Because it seems to me that the equality you envision is on your terms and under your control, which to me doesn’t seem like equality at all.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t move. Didn’t so much as twitch. But behind that impenetrable politician’s gaze, I knew he was debating whether to acknowledge the truth of his ambitions or whether to dodge the accusation, as he always did. Then he exhaled. “What is your point, Pénélope?”

“That we had the right to make the choices we did.” My voice quivered, and I drew in a ragged breath. “We knew the risks, and neither of us forced the other’s hand.”

“No, your father did that much.”

“And given the opportunity, you would’ve forced us apart. Your reasons might have been more just, but that does not change the fact that you would’ve used your power to make us dance to your tune. To force us down a path that would be most beneficial to your ends, not ours.” My outburst left me gasping for breath, but I managed to get out, “Why should we have to live lesser lives for no reason other than that we are not perfect?”