The Broken Ones Page 16

  Then Pénélope’s hand closed around mine. “Don’t,” she whispered. “That’s his fear you’re seeing and hearing. He’ll come around.”

  Her touch and the presence of her in my mind immediately softened my anger, though they did not vanquish it entirely. I’d wanted one night with her free of the involvement of others, and while that might have been too much to hope for, was it too much to have asked for?

  The King rose from where he’d been kneeling next to the tree, apparently content that our world was not literally going to come crashing down, and approached Pénélope and me.

  “I will see you first thing in the morning to discuss your punishment, nephew.”

  Before I could nod, Pénélope said, “Will you see me as well then, Your Majesty?”

  His implacable eyes shifted to her, weighing and measuring and seeing far too much for my liking. Then he said, “No, Pénélope. Your character ensures you will suffer as much or more for whatever punishment he bears for instigating this illicit union.” Straightening his coat, he turned in the direction of the palace and swiftly walked away.

  My father took a step in his direction. “Thibault, wait. I…”

  But the King ignored him. My father’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion dragging at his face as he watched our ruler – the man who’d once been his friend – depart.

  Pénélope’s hand gripped in mine, I waited to hear what my father would say. To discover how much damage my violation of his trust had done to our relationship. To learn whether I still had a family and a home.

  “What’s done is done,” he finally said. “Welcome to our home, Pénélope. I’ll speak to your father tomorrow about retrieving what items you need, but until then, please avail yourself of whatever our house has to offer.” His gaze shifted to me, but where I’d expected anger was only resignation. Which was worse.

  As he departed back into the manor, my mother approached. Without a word, she pulled Pénélope into her arms and squeezed her tightly, and after a moment’s hesitation, my new wife dropped my hand to grip my mother, her emotions a riot of bewilderment and relief.

  “It is always a terrifying thing when the most powerful amongst us are aggrieved,” she said. “But you are welcome here, daughter, and you may rest easy knowing that you are as safe as anyone can be in Trollus.” Taking Pénélope’s arm, she led her toward the gates. “The servants will draw you a bath and we’ll find you something more appropriate for you to wear for your bonding night.”

  They left me alone in the street.

  The fallout of our actions lay all around: shattered paving stones, dust in the air, and the faint pitter-patter of pebbles falling from above as the rocks settled against the canopy of the tree. Despite it being hours before dawn, the city seethed with wakefulness, trolls and half-bloods alike uneasy beneath the weight of rock, beneath the prickling heat of too much power expended in too small a space. All because of us.

  Anaïs had nearly destroyed Trollus tonight.

  I’d angered the King.

  My best friend had turned his back on me.

  The list of consequences streamed through my skull, and with them came fear. Anger. Anxiety. Trepidation. Other emotions I could barely understand, much less name. But in that cacophony, there was one thing absent. One thing I knew I’d never feel about bonding Pénélope.

  And that was regret.

  * * *

  What seemed like hours later, a knock sounded on the door to my room and Pénélope entered, the gleam in her eyes matching the anticipation that had been growing in me throughout that time. Anticipation that had me on my feet, pacing back and forth even as I attempted to temper my thoughts.

  It was late.

  She was exhausted.

  We’d both been through hell.

  She was beautiful. There was no tempering of my thoughts as I took in the sight of her, evidence of her ordeal washed away with warm water and scented soap, her hair coiled into loose curls that framed her lovely face. She wore a blue silk nightdress that clung to every curve, and I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

  Her head tilted, eyes growing distant as though deep in thought. But I knew what she was contemplating were my feelings, which was exhilarating and horrifying. A smile grew on her face, then she was across the room, arms wrapped around my neck. She smelled like flowers with the faintest undertones of spice.

  “Your mother is so kind,” she whispered.

  I did not want to talk about my mother.

  “And your servants. I’m not used to that.”

  The wonder bordering on disbelief carved at my insides. That such a small thing – a thing I’d always taken for granted – would bring her joy spoke volumes to what she’d endured. But never again. I’d never let life be like that for her again. “Get used to it,” I said into her hair. “This is your life now.”

  Anxiety pricked at me like a spider bite – not mine, but hers.

  “You’ll never have to go back,” I said. “I promise.” And for once, the leaden weight of my word was welcome.

  “Marc…”

  I pressed a finger to her lips, wanting for her to begin her escape from the past now, with not another moment wasted on it.

  Her lips curled against my finger. “You’d have me say nothing?”

  “No,” I said, removing my finger so that I could kiss her. “Nothing at all.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Marc

  The sounds and smells of morning came far too soon: the murmur of servants in the hallways, the faint clink of dishes, and the scent of cooking food filling the air. Pénélope was still asleep, tucked against me, her hair tickling my collarbone. The last thing I wanted to do was move.

  But the worst thing I could do was ignore a summons from the King.

  She stirred as I eased my arm out from under her, but then grew still as I settled the blankets over her shoulders. In the faint light of my magic, there was no mistaking the shadows of exhaustion beneath her eyes. More rest would do her good.

  I silently dressed, then eased out of the room, brightening my light only once I was out in the hallway. Following the smell of food, I ignored the urge to sneak out the back and went to find my parents.

  But only my mother sat at the table, a steaming cup held delicately in one hand. “Your father has gone to speak with the Duke,” she said. “And His Majesty is expecting you.”

  “I know.”

  I started to leave, but then she said, “Sit with me and eat before you go, darling.”

  Reluctantly, I tugged out one of the chairs, then selected a number of items for my plate though I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. Across the room, the piano began to play a simple melody, a lullaby I recognized from my childhood, her magic pressing the keys as though it were an extension of her fingers.

  “Eat.”

  I bit into a piece of bread layered with egg and butter sauce, one of my favorites, but the richness made me nauseous.

  “How is Pénélope?”

  I swallowed, the food sticking in my throat. “Sleeping.”

  “Good. She needs to keep up her strength.” A note jangled harsh and loud, and my mother frowned. “She’s lived a difficult life in that house. Some villains are born. Some are made. Édouard is both. As is his mother.”

  It was strange to hear my mother speak so familiarly about the Duke d’Angoulême, which made me wonder how well she knew him. How much contact they’d had in the past.

  “I understand your choice, Marc,” she said, setting down her cup. “You wish to keep her safe. And even if her life were not in danger, bonding always has an allure for those deeply in love. It is the pinnacle–” she lifted her hand high “–connection that can be achieved between two hearts. An ultimate and unalterable commitment in our world where loyalty flips on the turn of a coin. But…”

  I couldn’t help flinching at the word, because no good ever came from it.

  “But you are my son, and I fear the danger your choice has put your
life in.” The music ceased and she pressed a hand to her temple for a moment before turning her face to me, her magic brushing my cheek. “No parent wishes to outlive their child.”

  Her unseeing eyes turned liquid with tears, and my stomach twisted with guilt. “Mother…”

  “Shhh.” Rising, she came around the table, pulling me against her. “I am terrified for you, Marc. As is your father. But above all, I wish for you to be happy and to know love, so for the sake of that wish, I will try to be brave.” Bending, she kissed my forehead in a way she hadn’t since I was a little boy. “Now go. You shouldn’t keep the King waiting.”

  * * *

  I was directed not to the throne room, but to the King’s study, where I found him reading reports with his feet propped up on the desk. I bowed, then waited for him to acknowledge me, my heart racing faster and faster with each passing second.

  I was afraid of him.

  Everyone was, to a greater or lesser extent, with the lone exception of my Aunt Sylvie, who mocked him merrily with only the slightest provocation, her safety guaranteed by the fact she was conjoined to the Queen. Most counted his power, which was greater than any troll living, as the reason he inspired such fear, but I believed otherwise. It was his mind. The way he seemed able to delve into one’s deepest thoughts and discover the slightest weakness, then exploit said weakness when one was most vulnerable. He never used his magic – at least not to its fullest extent – but his mind controlled Trollus with its endless hoard of information. With deception and manipulation. He understood people: trolls, half-bloods, and humans alike. His only equal was Angoulême, and sometimes it felt like Trollus was an enormous game of Guerre set between them, every one of us a pawn.

  “Nephew.”

  I jumped, then bowed again. “Your Majesty.”

  He was silent, and I stared at the carpet – imported from the very far east of the continent – listening to him shift his bulk on the chair, taking my measure.

  “You stole from me.”

  “Yes.” Not only did the Élixir belong to the crown, I’d abused my access to the glass gardens in order to steal it.

  “You broke my laws.”

  “Yes.” I’d taken the key and gone into the labyrinth without my father’s permission. Had bonded Pénélope without the assent of the crown. Even if I had the capacity to lie, there was no point. The truth was written in silver across my hand.

  “Care to explain yourself? That you’re besotted with her is obvious, so you may skip that portion of your explanation.”

  “I…”

  “You will look at me when speaking, boy.”

  Dragging my eyes away from the carpet, I pushed back my hood. “It was the only way to save her, Your Majesty.” I didn’t bother mentioning that his unwillingness to help Pénélope had forced my hand, because in truth, it had only sped along my decision.

  “To save her?” One of the King’s eyebrows rose. “It seems to me that the individual she most needed protection from was you.”

  “Pardon?” The word slipped from my lips, not because I didn’t understand him, but because… because…

  “With caution and a bit of luck, the girl might have lived to an old age but not for the pair of you falling between the sheets.” He tapped his chin with his index finger. “Magic is curiously unreliable as a safeguard in such situations, and I speak from experience.”

  Lessa. It was the first time I’d heard of him acknowledging her parentage, but my thoughts were too scattered to focus on that now.

  “Regardless, the fact remains that it was those activities – of which you were an integral part – that ensured her demise. So tell me: how was stealing from me and breaking my laws saving her life?”

  My mouth opened and shut, my teeth clicking together. Nothing he said was untrue, and yet it twisted everything. My throat burned with bile as I struggled with what to say, before finally choking out, “The threat to her life was more imminent than that, Your Majesty. You see, her father…”

  “The Duke. Yes, you mentioned his threats before.”

  His voice dripped with sarcasm, but I ignored it and continued. “He found out that she was pregnant. He was angry, and he set Lessa to kill Pénélope. She managed to escape, but I knew… This was the only way.”

  The King stared at me, unblinking. “So you stole from me and broke my laws not to save Lady Pénélope, but to provide her with some extra weeks or months of life, at the likely cost of your own.”

  “Yes.” And I’d do it all over again.

  “Because you believed her father, the Duke d’Angoulême, intended to kill her or have her killed should she remain in his household?”

  “Yes.”

  Opening a drawer, the King extracted a card, sliding it across the desk toward me. “It’s been some time since I was invited to an engagement at the Angoulême manor, but I suppose there was no helping it given you are my nephew. Rather interestingly, it arrived prior to you and Pénélope returning from your little sojourn in the labyrinth.”

  I stared at the thick paper embossed with red and gold. It was an invitation to a bonding celebration at the Angoulême manor. My bonding celebration. And I knew in an instant that I’d misinterpreted my aunt’s foretelling. It hadn’t been a warning against me – it had been a warning for me. A warning about the Duke’s intentions.

  “You didn’t save her from anything, because her life was never truly in jeopardy,” the King said, and the invitation burst into flame. “You, nephew, have been played.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Pénélope

  I woke with a start in the blackness, the feel of the sheets and the scent of the air disorienting until I created a light, and Marc’s bedroom materialized around me. But the familiarity of his belongings brought me no comfort, a deep sense of unease weighing upon my mind, implacable and unshakeable, because it was not my own.

  “Marc,” I murmured, then reached for the silken nightdress that lay next to the bed, the fabric cool as I pulled it over my head. He was not here, nor in the home, but it felt like I could walk toward him with the unerring precision of one holding a compass finding their way north. Though unnecessary, because wherever he had been, he was coming in this direction.

  Not wherever, I thought, glancing at the clock. At the palace. The King had asked to see him first thing about his punishment, and while I was certain no physical harm had been delivered upon him, something else had. A million thoughts raced through my mind about what possible penance His Majesty might have demanded. That our bonding would be undone, though I knew this was impossible. That I’d be returned to my father, and that the most terrifying and glorious night of my life would be reduced to a reminder of what I’d lost, for however long my father allowed me to live.

  “It cannot be undone,” I told myself, gulping down a glass of water to wash away the sourness rising up my throat. “They can’t take him away from you.”

  But on the heels of my own reassurances came the thought that Marc was coming to regret his decision. That his unease was not from the King’s punishment, but rather the costs he must bear for bonding me against the will of everyone. No one was pleased about this union: not his parents, nor my sister, and most especially not Tristan. No one could break our bond and take him away from me, but having to live with his resentment, growing day after day, would be worse.

  “Stop it,” I whispered. “Quit imagining trouble when you have more than enough as it is.”

  Except there was an insidiousness to having another’s feelings in one’s head, knowing that they were real but unknowing of the cause, and try as I might, I couldn’t cage the thoughts away.

  A knock sounded at the door, and I jumped. “Yes?”

  A servant appeared, a gown I didn’t recognize draped across her arms. “Good morning, my lady,” she said. “Lord Marc asked that you not be disturbed, but you have a visitor waiting for you downstairs.”

  “A visitor?” It could be the twins or my sister, but my
skin prickled with the sense that it was someone else.

  “Yes, my lady.” The woman’s jaw tightened. “His Grace, the Duke d’Angoulême.”

  My father.

  * * *

  I forced food down my throat while the servants laced me into the gown and fixed my hair, but my stomach was flipping with such regularity that I wondered if doing so had been a mistake. The last thing I needed was to vomit on my father’s shoes.

  My heels silent on the carpets, I followed the sense of power down to the parlor. Marc’s mother sat stiffly on a sofa, her husband hovering next to her arm. Across from them, and looking entirely at ease, sat my father, cane polished to a high shine and resting across his knees.

  “Pénélope,” he exclaimed at the sight of me, leaping to his feet and crossing the room. Marc’s mother rose with equal speed, her hands balling into fists. There was no chance my father hadn’t noticed, but he showed no reaction as he kissed both my cheeks. “Already we feel your absence at home, darling.”

  My heart was fluttering like a caged bird, my skin crawling where he gripped my arms. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I would’ve given you time to settle in, but I found that I couldn’t bear the idea of missing your reaction to the delivery of your trousseau.”

  “My trousseau.”

  “Yes, yes!” He dropped my arms and gestured to the corner of the room where at least half a dozen polished chests sat in orderly rows. “I’ve had your art supplies brought over as well; they are in the room that the Comte has kindly allocated for your use.”

  “Art supplies,” I repeated, staring at the chests, knowing I sounded like a fool repeating his words, but he might as well have been speaking a foreign language for how much sense they made to me.