“Guerre,” she mused. “Yes, perhaps that is an appropriate place to begin. With strategy.”
“Tristan. He…” I hesitated, watching the Queen in the mirror. She had ceased with brushing my hair, and her eyes seemed glazed over and unseeing. “He likes this game?”
The Duchesse shook her head. “He does not like it – he lives it. Now, shall we begin?”
The following two days were filled from dawn till dusk with a wide assortment of activities. I learned the basics of Guerre from the Duchesse, practiced with a dancing master, learned how to blow glass, wrote bad alliterative poetry with the twins, and followed Marc about on tours of various parts of the city. Not once did I so much as catch a glimpse of Tristan, which is why, on the third day, his abrupt arrival at my painting lesson caught me off guard.
“That,” said a voice from behind me, “is without a doubt one of the ugliest combinations of color I have ever seen. Please do not tell me you call that art!”
I turned slowly from the brown and green mixture I had been idly smearing across the canvas to find Tristan standing behind me, arms crossed and a frown on his face. “How long have you been at this?”
“All afternoon.” I scowled and got to my feet.
“If this is what an afternoon of lessons by the finest artists of Trollus can accomplish, I can only imagine what you were like when you started.” He glanced towards my teachers. “You’re wasting your time.”
“The Duchesse asked us to give Lady Cécile instruction, Your Highness,” one of the artists said, looking like she would rather be anywhere but here.
“Well, I am telling you to cease and desist immediately,” Tristan snapped. “This,” he gestured vaguely towards my painting, “is not worthy of your attention.”
“Excuse me, Your Highness.” I grabbed handfuls of my skirt and squeezed the fabric, feeling the hot flush of anger and embarrassment on my cheeks. “But I was led to believe I could pursue whatever activities I wished, so I do not see what right you have to stand in my way!”
“Royal prerogative!”
I snorted. “More like royal need to interfere with everyone else’s business because you have nothing better to do with your time!”
His eyes widened with apparent outrage and he stepped towards me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other trolls trying to discreetly retreat. “What do you know about how I spend my time, human?”
The way he said the word made it seem like something disgusting and foul. I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant to control the sting. This is a fake fight, Cécile, I reminded myself. It’s just acting, don’t take it personally. But it was hard.
Perhaps he sensed that he was pushing me too far, because Tristan stepped back. “What is this bit of art supposed to be, anyway?” he asked, gesturing at the smears of paint.
I squared my shoulders. “A representation of feelings through color.”
“Oh? And what feelings, pray tell, does this represent?”
I lifted my chin and looked him straight in the eye. “My feelings for you, dear husband.”
One of the trolls gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, but I barely noticed over the sharp jab of shock in the back of my head. Good, I thought spitefully. If we were going to fake fight, he’d better get used to taking his fair share of the blows.
Abruptly, Tristan began to laugh. “I suppose,” he said, after his fit of laughter subsided, “that you aren’t wasting your time after all.” He gestured at the wide-eyed trolls hiding in the shadowed corners. “Get back to it, then.”
He spun on his heel and left the studio without another word.
“Are you well, my lady?” One of the trolls came forward, touching my arm. I realized that I was trembling then, my breath coming in little hiccupy gasps.
“Yes. No.” I pressed a hand against my stomach and took several deep breaths. “Please have my painting framed and delivered to me at the palace.”
Ignoring her slack-jawed look of horror, I hurried out of the studio, my guards following at my heels.
The painting was waiting for me when I returned to my rooms late that evening after a rousing game of three-legged tennis with the twins. Sweaty and more than a little disheveled, I stood staring at the silk wrapped package sitting on Tristan’s desk, wondering if I had made a mistake by having it brought here.
The door swung open, and Tristan strode into the room. As it shut behind him, the sound of the waterfall disappeared and a faint haze appeared, obscuring the walls from view.
“Hungry?” Without waiting for my answer, he tossed an apple in my direction. I snagged it out of the air without thinking.
“Nice catch. Influence of your older brother?”
I nodded warily. “What do you know about my brother?”
Tristan took a bite of the other apple he was holding, chewing and swallowing before answering. “Frédéric de Troyes. Nineteen years old, brown hair and blue eyes. He is second-lieutenant in that imposter-you-call-a-regent’s standing army. He is rumored to be an excellent shot with a pistol. He is also known to have a particular fondness for strong drink and tavern wenches, the combination of which is likely to yield several illegitimate children, if it has not already.”
I set the apple down. “How do you know all this?” It was true, but it was not how I knew my brother. The Fred I knew was a boy who took his younger sister hunting and on weeklong treks through the wilderness. Who never treated her like she was incapable just because she was a girl. To see my brother reduced to a womanizing drunk troubled me.
“Spies,” Tristan replied. “I sent dozens of them out to learn what they could about your life and family after your friend Luc delivered you to us.”
“He isn’t my friend,” I said coldly, hating the idea of a bunch of strangers spying on my family.
“I suppose not,” Tristan said, tossing his apple core onto a tray.
A thought occurred to me. “Are they still watching them? Your spies?”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly – I might not have noticed if it were not for the tension growing in my mind. “Yes.”
“And?” It was hard to ask the question, because I knew whatever he said would hurt.
“Most of the town has given up hope you will ever be found alive,” he said, gesturing for me to take a seat and waiting until I did before he settled across from me. “They think you fell victim to a bear or mountain cat. But your father and brother continue to search, as does the innkeeper’s daughter, Sabine. She refuses to hear any talk that you might be dead – has ridden out every day to look for you.”
“But she’s terrified of horses,” I managed to choke out between my fingers. “She never rides.”
“Then I suppose that she chooses to do so now is a testament of her devotion to you,” Tristan said quietly.
It was too much – it was bad enough missing them as much as I did, but bearing the burden of their grief as well? I broke down into heavy gasping sobs, tears running down to soak my skirts until Tristan handed me a handkerchief. It was the only move he made. He offered no comfort or words; only assumed that strange preternatural stillness that reminded me of how different we were.
“I should not have told you,” he said when my tears subsided.
“No,” I said, hugging my arms around my body. “Thank you for telling me. I want to know. Need to know.” I paused, searching my mind for the words to convey what I was feeling. I looked at him in mute appeal.
“I know how you feel,” he said, and then shook his head, rejecting the statement. “I feel how you feel.” His voice was raw.
Having him admit it was oddly comforting. “It’s just that I hate knowing that they’re suffering and there’s nothing I can do about it,” I said. “If only I could send them word…”
“You can’t,” Tristan said, eyes darkening. “That is not a possibility.”
“I know!” I snapped at him. “But that doesn’t stop me from wishing there was some way to make them stop searc
hing. To get on with their lives.”
Tristan’s brow furrowed. “There is one way,” he said reluctantly. “I could arrange for… remains to be found.”
A sour taste filled my mouth. “My remains.”
“In a manner of speaking. Bones showing signs you were killed by an animal. We’d have to include some sort of token easily identified as yours. It will be devastating to them at first, of course, but it will give them closure. If that is what you want.”
But was that what I wanted? Did I want my family and friends to think I was dead? To bury some stranger’s bones thinking it was me, when in truth I was living and breathing only a few leagues away? Or did I want them to keep hoping I was alive, just as I kept hoping I would one day be free of this place?
“Is it better that way?” I whispered. “Will they be happier?”
Tristan shook his head. “That isn’t my choice to make.”
Lifting my hair, I reluctantly unclasped the golden chain from around my neck. “Here. This is my mother’s necklace – I always wore it before. Everyone will recognize it.”
He silently took it from me.
“Don’t tell me the details,” I said. “Just take care of it.”
“As you wish,” he replied, and I felt his pity as he slipped the necklace into his pocket.
I took a deep breath and my gaze fell on the package on the desk. “I have something for you,” I said, glad to change the subject. “A gift.”
One black eyebrow arched. “You do?”
I gestured to the object in question, and, looking somewhat puzzled, Tristan pulled off the wrappings.
Silence.
“I meant it as a joke,” I explained. “You know, ha ha?”
He nodded slowly. “You did well today. Talk of our little argument has spread like wildfire through the city. Everyone is convinced we despise each other.”
“You were very convincing,” I said.
He raised his head to look at me. “As were you. I almost believed…” He trailed off and then waved his hand, as though what he had been about to say was no matter. “This really is dreadfully ugly.”
“I know.” I broke out into a grin. “You should have seen the looks on their faces when I told them to frame it.”
Tristan laughed, and I felt the tension flow out of me in a welcome release. I realized that I had been half-afraid that he’d meant what he said earlier – that the argument had been real. Our allegiance was tenuous at best, and his anger towards me today had been so convincing that part of me thought he’d changed his mind. Or worse, that it had been all my imagination that he was on my side in the first place.
“You should sign it,” he said. “Artists always put their mark on their work.”
As I set down his tear-stained handkerchief to pick up a pen and ink, I noticed the monogram on it. For reasons I could not explain, I scrawled Cécile de Montigny on the bottom of the painting.
Tristan went still. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, softly as though to himself. He straightened abruptly. “But the Cécile you presented today would not make such a concession, would she?”
The ink rose off the painting, coalescing into a blob before dropping back into the pot. “I suppose not,” I muttered, letting my hair fall forward so he wouldn’t be able to see the embarrassment written all over my face. Not that he wouldn’t be able to feel it. Re-dipping the pen, I scrawled a C in the bottom corner. “Better?”
He made a noncommittal noise, and pulled something from his pocket. “As it turns out, I have something for you as well.”
My mouth made a small “o” as he held up a necklace glittering with tiny diamonds, wrought to look like a cascade of snowflakes. “It’s beautiful.”
“Try it on,” he said.
He took hold of my shoulders and turned me towards a mirror. I stood frozen as he brushed my hair aside, his expression fixed with concentration as he undid the clasp and fastened it around my neck. My senses seemed magnified, and I felt everything keenly: the brush of his wrist against my shoulder, the warmth of his breath on my hair, the faint scent of apples on his hands.
When he was finished, he eyed our reflection. “The Jewelers’ Guild had it made expressly for you – they sent it to you at dinner, but you weren’t there.”
It was like ice water had been poured through my veins. “Oh,” I said. “How kind of them.”
He frowned. “You don’t like it.”
“It’s… cold.” I moved, needing to put distance between us. I could sense his confusion and it made my own thoughts seem scattered. “Everything here is beautiful!” I said, my voice bordering on a shout. “Everything. But it doesn’t mean anything because I’m always alone.”
“You’re rarely alone,” he replied warily.
“That’s not what I mean!” I pressed my hands to my temple as I struggled to articulate myself. “Everyone around me is there because they’ve been told they have to be. By you, your father, your aunt! No one cares about me except for what they think I can do for them. And now,” I clenched my teeth. “Now, I’m about to send you off to ensure that the only people who do care about me think I’m dead. Soon I’ll be nothing, no one to anyone.”
“I see.” His voice was toneless.
Suddenly the necklace broke away from my neck. I watched helplessly as it rose up into the air and rent into countless pieces before dropping into a heap on the carpet.
“Why did you do that?” I shouted.
“It was ill-considered.”
I dropped to my knees and touched the scattered bits of jewels and metal. “You didn’t consider it at all,” I said bitterly. “Someone else did.”
Tristan turned his back on me and I watched him grip the edge of the desk so hard the wood groaned in protest. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.
“Do what?” I asked.
Silence.
“Victoria and Vincent,” he finally said, not turning around. “They are more than passing fond of you. And Marc, well, I didn’t think there was anything that could breathe life back into him, but you seem to have managed. And given the amount of time you spend with all three, I can only assume the fondness is mutual. Avail yourself of them, and perhaps you will find the warmth you’re lacking.”
Before I could think of anything to say to that, he was gone, the door left swinging from the force of his departure.
CHAPTER 16
CéCILE
“Cécile, I thought you said this would be fun.”
I glanced up from my contemplation of the swirling water of the river. “I said no such thing, Vincent. You asked how ‘we human folk went about catching fish’ and I said that I would show you. You said that it sounded like fun.”
“That’s true,” Victoria declared, looking up from the worms she had lined up on a rock in an attempt to get them to race. “Although I must say, Cécile, this technique of fish-catching seems flawed, as we have caught none. What we have done is sit in a row for nearly an hour, listening to Marc’s dreadful conversation and watching you stare pensively at the water.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Fishing is better done at dawn and dusk.” I squinted up at rock above. “Although I’m not certain that matters as much here.”
“I find it rather relaxing,” Marc said from where he lounged across a rock on my right. “It would be the perfect activity if you two could stand to be quiet for more than a minute.”
“I expect no more from you, Marc,” Victoria replied. “But Cécile is usually far more entertaining than this.” She poked me in the ribs. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Tristan and I quarreled at breakfast,” I muttered. “I’m afraid he put me in a poor mood.”
“About what?”
“Apparently I chew too loudly.”
“That is a very annoying habit,” Victoria said. “So is this.” She threw a handful of worms at me. I tried to dodge, but the wriggling mass landed square on my skirts.
“What happened to the farm girl I onc
e knew?” she teased. In response, I picked one up and pretended to eat it. Then I tossed it on Marc’s sleeve.
“Can a day go by without you and Tristan shouting at each other across the dinner table?” Marc asked, picking the offending worm off his sleeve and setting it in a crevice between two rocks. “Do you ever have a civil conversation?”
“No.” I pushed away the worms, then reached down to the water to rinse my hands. It had been weeks since the necklace debacle, but I had not once seen Tristan alone. We were together often enough in public – at parties and dinners, sometimes in audiences with his father – but he always treated me with either cold civility or picked cruel little arguments that sent rumors swirling through the city. I had no choice but to play along – and I played my part well – but every argument left a sour taste in my mouth and a cold emptiness in my heart. I slept alone in our rooms every night, although he kept up the pretense that he was making at least some attempt at fathering a child by ensuring he was seen stopping in at odd hours of the night. But he arrived when I was sleeping, was gone again by the time I awoke. The only evidence that he had been there at all would be a rumpled shirt tossed over a chair back or objects rearranged on a table – enough that I would notice and know to come up with another version of the same lie about what passed between us in the night.
Marc knew me well enough now to know this wasn’t a topic I cared to belabor, and he changed the subject. “Did you fish much before?”
“When I was younger,” I said. “My father used to take my brother and me, and my friend Sabine would come as well – not because of the fishing, but because she fancies my brother. Sometimes she and I would go, but instead of fishing, we would lie by the banks of the stream and tell stories to each other. And once I learned to read, I would sometimes bring books and read them to her. But I had less time at that point.”
“You learnt to read late,” Marc commented, winding up his fishing line.
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