We said our goodbyes to our friends; then we left the camp. Once we were out of earshot, Tristan stopped. “He knows Victoria is distracted by Vincent, so he shouldn’t suspect that we’re allowing him to escape.”

I nodded, wishing there were fewer uncertainties.

“Even if he’s not entirely convinced Lessa turned on him, he’ll still call Roland out of Courville and her reach until he’s sure. All I have to do is follow him, and then…”

“Kill your brother.”

He sighed and looked away. “Yes.”

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him hard, trying to keep my trepidation in check. “Please be careful.”

“I love you,” he said; then he disappeared into the night.

I crept back on silent feet to the tent where Gran and Martin sat silently watching. Taking a seat next to them, I turned off the lamp, and together, we waited.

The fire burned low, Chris occasionally prodding it with a stick and sending bursts of sparks in the air. The wind howled softly, and faintly, but clearly, I heard Victoria’s voice. “Please, Vincent. Say something, anything.”

She cajoled him gently, reminding him of stories of their past, but of Vincent, I heard nothing.

The blanket overtop Angoulême’s sled stirred, the motion imperceptible enough that I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t be watching for this very moment. The edge of the blanket lifted, and I almost imagined I could see the Duke’s silver eyes peering out from the shadows. My gran gave a soft cough as one does in one’s sleep, and a few minutes later, Chris rested his head in his hands, shoulders slumping with apparent exhaustion.

I clenched my teeth, desperately afraid as the blanket stirred again. Be brave, be brave, be brave, I silently chanted, even as our prisoner extracted himself from what he believed was a neglected cage of magic. My eyes caught a faint distortion in the air, then the blanket settled down, taking on the shape of a prone man, though I knew nothing lay beneath.

Sweat prickled on my skin as I waited for the Duke to make his move. He could kill Chris where he sat before Victoria could make it back to camp. Tristan was long gone, making his way down to the coast. We were banking on Angoulême’s cowardice.

My pulse hammered in my ears, and I took hold of my grandmother’s hand, squeezing it hard.

Then the distortion moved, making its way swiftly toward the trees. Martin touched my shoulder, then his form turned misty and he ran on silent feet into the night, returning some time later with a smile on his face.

The Duke had taken the bait.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Tristan