“Perhaps you might instruct them, my lady,” Roland said. “Given your own expertise in the matter.” There was a sly edge to his voice that reminded me of his brother, but I shook away the thought.

“He knows she isn’t Anaïs,” Marc murmured, and I nodded. Knew, and wasn’t entirely pleased about the deception.

“Check them,” Angoulême said, his tone sour. Indeed, for one who, in his mind, had won a victory a lifetime in the making, he seemed of a poor temper.

Roland glanced at Sabine, then turned back to the fire. “They are who they are. Human. No magic.”

“Are you sure?”

Roland slowly lifted his chin to meet the Duke’s gaze, and the hatred in his eyes was like nothing I’d ever seen. A wrath inhuman in its magnitude. “By all means, Your Grace, please check for yourself. Or perhaps have the lady check them, given she excels with disguises. Or at least thinks she does.” His eyes shifted to his half-sister, eyeing her up as though wondering how she’d look without her skin.

Lessa licked her lips nervously, and shifted a few inches away. But Angoulême seemed unperturbed. “Do not test me, boy,” he snapped, jerking the tray from one of the women’s hands and slamming it on the ground.

Noticeably trembling, Sabine approached Roland, and I took hold of Marc’s hand, squeezing it hard to keep my fear in check.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered, dropping into another curtsey, then carefully setting the tray in front of him, her body obscuring Angoulême and Lessa’s view. Then she slowly lifted her face to meet his eyes and I held my breath. Please don’t hurt her.

Roland’s head tilted ever so slightly, expression considering. Then his eyes flicked to the scrap of paper Sabine carefully dropped onto his tray.

Please. Please.

“Thank you,” he said, his smile revealing too many teeth to be comforting. Then magic plucked up the scrap, he glanced at the words, and it disappeared in a smokeless puff of flame. “It smells delightful.”

Sabine curtseyed a third time, then retreated with the other women back to the distant cook fire. Roland watched her go, then began eating, showing no interest in divulging the existence or the contents of my note to his master. He finished his meal and rose to his feet. “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Angoulême demanded.

Roland stopped in his tracks, and even from the distance where we watched, I felt the ground tremble. “You’ve made it quite clear, Your Grace, that I’m responsible for dirtying my hands for you, but I did not realize that you intended to reciprocate.”

Marc snorted out a laugh. “Madness aside, he’s got a Montigny tongue on him.”

Angoulême scowled. “Don’t be long.”

“That’s hard to predict,” Roland replied, strolling off into the woods.