“Royal prerogative!”

I snorted. “More like royal need to interfere with everyone else’s business because you have nothing better to do with your time!”

His eyes widened with apparent outrage and he stepped towards me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other trolls trying to discreetly retreat. “What do you know about how I spend my time, human?”

The way he said the word made it seem like something disgusting and foul. I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant to control the sting. This is a fake fight, Cécile, I reminded myself. It’s just acting, don’t take it personally. But it was hard.

Perhaps he sensed that he was pushing me too far, because Tristan stepped back. “What is this bit of art supposed to be, anyway?” he asked, gesturing at the smears of paint.

I squared my shoulders. “A representation of feelings through color.”

“Oh? And what feelings, pray tell, does this represent?”

I lifted my chin and looked him straight in the eye. “My feelings for you, dear husband.”

One of the trolls gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, but I barely noticed over the sharp jab of shock in the back of my head. Good, I thought spitefully. If we were going to fake fight, he’d better get used to taking his fair share of the blows.

Abruptly, Tristan began to laugh. “I suppose,” he said, after his fit of laughter subsided, “that you aren’t wasting your time after all.” He gestured at the wide-eyed trolls hiding in the shadowed corners. “Get back to it, then.”

He spun on his heel and left the studio without another word.

“Are you well, my lady?” One of the trolls came forward, touching my arm. I realized that I was trembling then, my breath coming in little hiccupy gasps.

“Yes. No.” I pressed a hand against my stomach and took several deep breaths. “Please have my painting framed and delivered to me at the palace.”

Ignoring her slack-jawed look of horror, I hurried out of the studio, my guards following at my heels.

The painting was waiting for me when I returned to my rooms late that evening after a rousing game of three-legged tennis with the twins. Sweaty and more than a little disheveled, I stood staring at the silk wrapped package sitting on Tristan’s desk, wondering if I had made a mistake by having it brought here.

The door swung open, and Tristan strode into the room. As it shut behind him, the sound of the waterfall disappeared and a faint haze appeared, obscuring the walls from view.

“Hungry?” Without waiting for my answer, he tossed an apple in my direction. I snagged it out of the air without thinking.

“Nice catch. Influence of your older brother?”

I nodded warily. “What do you know about my brother?”

Tristan took a bite of the other apple he was holding, chewing and swallowing before answering. “Frédéric de Troyes. Nineteen years old, brown hair and blue eyes. He is second-lieutenant in that imposter-you-call-a-regent’s standing army. He is rumored to be an excellent shot with a pistol. He is also known to have a particular fondness for strong drink and tavern wenches, the combination of which is likely to yield several illegitimate children, if it has not already.”