I explained to him the only clue we had, and he swiftly moved amongst the shelves, withdrawing several books that he laid open on a table. “These were the Angoulême lands,” he said, tracing the outline of an area on the other side of the Isle. “Their estate was here, but the castle and all the surrounding property was destroyed after the Fall.” He shook his head. “Everything was. The humans wanted no part of our legacy to remain, and while there might be ruins of some of the larger structures, of a surety, no portraiture would have survived intact.”

I dug my nails into the table, trying not to let my frustration get the better of me. “Is there nothing of the trolls that survived? No place left on the Isle that would have meaning?”

“None that I know of, except…” He hesitated. “But no, none of the Angoulême ancestors were entombed there. The Montignys married with every other great family, but never them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Montigny tomb in the mountains.” Martin went back to the stacks and retrieved another volume, this one filled with drawings embellished with beautiful color. “Until the Fall rendered it impossible to do so, every Montigny was interred in a mountain tomb. And when a king or queen died…” He stopped flipping through the book and spread it flat.

I stared at the drawing. “They carved their faces into the rock.”

Martin nodded. “The sculptures were too large for the humans to destroy, if they even knew they were there.”

This was the place where Angoulême was hiding, I knew it. And in the knowing, all the other pieces fell into place: the way Angoulême seemed oblivious to the flaws in Lessa’s disguise. His inappropriate familiarity with the girl who was supposed to be his daughter. Angoulême knew it was Lessa beneath Anaïs’s face, and had for some time.

“Where is this place?” I asked.

Martin flipped to a map, then went very still, his eyes wide.

“If my memory serves me correctly,” a deep voice said. “It’s right about here.” A hand that matched the voice reached over my shoulder, a thick index finger tapping a spot deep within the mountains.

A shuddering breath exited my lips, and I slowly turned around, my eyes tracking up until they met the silver gaze of King Thibault de Montigny.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cécile

“I must confess,” the King said, resting the butt of his sluag spear on the ground, “that I did not think it was possible for you to look worse than you did when you first came to us.” He flicked at a soiled lock of my hair, and I flinched. “You’ve proven me wrong.”

“How did you know I was here?” It hardly mattered, but it was the only thing I could think of to say.