I’d unleashed the trolls and worse upon the world with a vague certainty that it could be made to work, that we would triumph and peace would be had; but not once had I considered what role I would play. What part Tristan would play, yes. The innate decency of most of the trolls, yes. The ability of my friends to overthrow the wicked, yes. But of myself…

I swallowed hard, panic creeping in around the edges of my thoughts. Tristan had walked away without acknowledging who I was or what I’d done. Without so much as a backward glance. Logically, I knew that he would not have done so without reason. Good reason. But the dreadful grasping claws of doubt whispered something else.

The gazes of those left outside no longer seemed suspicious; they seemed full of accusation and blame. The urge to run filled me, but to where? The home of the woman I’d murdered? The hotel room filled with memories? There was nowhere and no one in Trianon that I could turn to for guidance. Except…

My feet moved, and I flew up the steps into the castle. Faster and faster I ran, through the dim corridors until I found the door I was looking for. Flinging it open, I stumbled inside. “Sabine?”

And slid to a stop. Julian knelt on the floor, his face streaked with tears and my mother’s corpse in his arms. His eyes blazed with anger, and with one hand, he fumbled for the pistol at his waist and pointed it at my chest. “Murderer,” he hissed.

He was not wrong.

Chapter Two

Tristan

Do not look at her! I screamed the order at myself, but keeping my back turned and taking those first few steps seemed almost impossible.

But so very necessary.

They could not learn that it was Cécile who’d killed Anushka. Bad enough that she was clearly complicit, but if the humans learned she’d wielded the knife, they’d blame her for what was to come. And already her death was sought by too many. Better that they believed it was me and have all the violence and vitriol cast at my feet.

Yet knowing it was the right choice did little to ease the sting of leaving her standing alone in the snow, hands stained with blood. It was Anushka’s blood, not her mother’s – for Genevieve had been dead many long years – but I doubted very much that she was yet capable of disassociating the two.