Tristan poured his father a glass of wine. “From what I gather, all did not go as planned.”

An understatement, if I had ever heard one.

The King took a long swallow of the red liquid. “No.”

Tristan hung his head. “You are disappointed, I expect.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’ve gone through a great deal today and still the curse remains. How do you think I feel?” Tristan answered without hesitation.

The King eyed his son with critical interest, considering his words. The glass drained, he motioned for Tristan to pour him another. “What do you propose?”

“I propose,” Tristan said, pouring the wine nearly to the rim, “that we bind her with oaths swearing her to secrecy and send her on her merry way.”

“Or we could just cut off her head. The dead, as they say, tell no tales.”

My blood ran cold and I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping aloud. Tristan’s apprehension rose, but the shrug he gave his father told another story. “You could, although given that I’ve just been bonded to her, the process would cause me no small amount of discomfort.”

“Attached to the little thing already?” the King smirked, the chair he settled into groaning beneath his weight.

“She was brought here to serve a purpose,” Tristan scoffed. “What I am attached to is my life. You know the risks.”

The King chortled at this and his son laughed along with him. Tristan’s words were surprisingly painful to me – not that I had any reason to expect anything different. I’d been brought to Trollus to lift the curse – and I’d failed. Why should he care what happened to me now? But why would my death jeopardize his life?

“As it turns out,” the King said, laughter cutting off abruptly, “she’ll be neither leaving nor dying.”

Tristan froze, and this time the shock on his face matched that in his mind. “Pardon?”

“Your aunt believes it premature for me to give up on her fulfilling the prophesy. She proposes we keep her around for a while longer, and that you should treat her as any man does his wife. We need to give the people some form of hope or who knows what sort of trouble they’ll cause.”

Tristan blanched. “You can’t be serious?”

The King raised one eyebrow.

“She’s a human.”

“I noticed.” The King took another mouthful of wine, leaving a red stain on his upper lip.

“You want me to…”

“Yes. You’ve bonded her, and now you shall bed her. I can’t say I relish the idea of a bunch of half-bloods running about the royal nursery, but quite frankly, I’d breed you to a sheep if that is what it took to break the witch’s blasted malediction. You’re seventeen years old, time to man-up.”

“I don’t care for mutton.” Tristan crossed his arms. “It’s too tough.”

“Well then count your lucky stars that your dear Cécile isn’t a sheep,” the King said, climbing to his feet. “I’m certain you’ll find her markedly more tender.”

I pressed back against the closet, bile rising in my throat. They were discussing me as though I had no more value than a side of meat, and… My mind refused to delve any further into what else they were discussing.

“This isn’t a debate, Tristan. This is an order – do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Tristan said, plainly out of glib retorts.

His father patted him on the shoulder. “It will be worth the cost once you are outside in the sun – just imagine, eventually you’ll rule lands wider than the eyes can see.”

“Who wouldn’t want that?”

The King nodded, satisfied. “Good lad.”

As the door shut behind him, I let out a huge gust of breath that I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding. “Tristan,” I whispered. “Get me out of here.”

He didn’t move from where he sat on the arm of a chair.

“Tristan!”

He looked up, his troll-light casting eerie shadows on his face. “I’ll send someone to let you out,” he said. “I need to…” He got to his feet and, ignoring my pleas, left the room.

The knot of emotion residing in my mind did not depart with him. Resting my head against the closet door, I attempted to thrust aside my own feelings to better focus on his. Which was an exercise of frustration. He was unhappy, that much I could say, but it was hard to pick specifics out of the seething stew of emotion. And what good was knowing specifics anyway? What good was knowing how he felt? What possible advantage could such a connection give me?

Tired, sore, and more than a little scared, I settled on the floor. My skirts rustled as I arranged them to make myself comfortable. I could probably have picked the lock, but there seemed no point. The closet was darker than the darkest of nights and the room no better. I could not escape without light, and that would be hard to come by in this place.

I needed to get away. Any hope the trolls would let me go had been dashed by the conversation I had just overheard. The King intended to keep me in Trollus indefinitely, and he had expectations of what I would do while I was here. At best, I was an instrument for breaking a curse, and at worst, a broodmare for what they called half-bloods. The very idea made me shiver. It wasn’t Tristan who repulsed me – despite the fact he wasn’t human, he was handsome, and if I were being honest with myself, the strange drink they’d given me had drawn out stirrings of desire I would gladly do without. Clearly the same had not occurred for him. To him, I was little better than a sheep. And the idea of spending the rest of my life with someone who was disgusted by me made me cringe. Because I would never be able to escape it – even standing on far sides of the city, I would still be able to feel it.

I leaned my head against the shelves, exhaustion starting to take hold of me. Only as I started to drift off to sleep did it occur to me: if the trolls had been trying to break the curse for five hundred years, why had Tristan been so happy when we failed?

CHAPTER 8

TRISTAN

“Bloody stones and sky, Marc,” I hissed as he walked through the door, “where have you been?” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve been waiting a good hour for you.”

“So sorry, cousin,” he replied, tossing his cloak in the corner and pouring himself a drink. “I am at your beck and call, but it did take a bit of time to reestablish curfew.”

I pushed aside my books and leaned my elbows on the table, only now noticing the drying blood on Marc’s black sleeve. “Casualties?”

“Twelve dead, all miners except for one street worker, but I believe he got caught in the crossfire, such as it was.”

I grimaced. “Perpetrators?”

Marc shrugged. “Hard to prove, but it sounds like guild members. They did not report any injuries.”

“They wouldn’t.” I rubbed my temples, trying to push aside the knot of emotion residing in the back of my skull that most decidedly did not belong to me. The emotions belonging to the girl. Cécile.

“Do we know who instigated?” I asked.

Marc’s expression was grim and told me all I needed to know. Sliding my arms across the table I rested my forehead against the smooth surface and then banged it against the wood twice for good measure. “I can’t think,” I said. “Can you deal with it until I have more time?”

“I suppose.”

Marc sat down in a chair across from me and said nothing else, which allowed me to turn my attention back to the girl. She was fading. I straightened abruptly. “It’s diminishing! The bond, it’s fading away.” The triumphant grin on my face vanished at the sight of Marc’s slowly shaking head.

“She’s sleeping. You’ll notice her a lot less when she’s asleep, unless she dreams – that can get interesting.”

I motioned for him to fill my glass. “It isn’t interesting at all,” I said. “It’s a problem. She’s a problem – one that needs dealing with.”

Marc’s face darkened. “Cécile,” he said, emphasizing her name, “isn’t a problem. She’s an innocent girl who has been dragged into this situation entirely against her will. Your father had her violently kidnapped, dragged through the labyrinth, and then bonded to a troll using a magic that I am certain she didn’t know existed. She is not our problem – we are hers.”

Leaning back in my chair, I watched my orb of light circling above us. “You make a valid point.”

“The poor girl is probably terrified,” Marc added. “How could she not be?”

“Well, she isn’t,” I said. “What she is, is blasted inquisitive. I’d rather the fear – fear doesn’t think, it just reacts.”

Marc snorted. “Tristan, the bond changes everything,” he said. “Whether you like her or not, keeping her safe will become your ultimate priority. The last thing you are going to want is for her to be afraid – especially of you.” He took a sip of wine, watching my face. “For the rest of your lives, you will feel what the other is feeling every waking moment. Sometimes in your dreams.”

I covered my eyes with a hand, a heavy feeling in my chest. I was the one that was afraid.

“Where did you leave her?” Marc asked. “Is she safe?”

“She’s safe enough,” I said, hesitating for a moment before adding, “She’s locked in the closet of my sitting room.”

Marc’s face twisted – which for him, was saying something. “Are you quite serious?”

“It was the only place I could hide her.” I quickly explained the conversation I’d had with my father.

“And you left her there? After she had to listen to that?”

I nodded, starting to feel somewhat ashamed.

Marc got to his feet, left the room, and was back moments later. “I sent a message to Élise. She’ll take care of it.”

I bit my lip hard, considering all my options, none of which were good. “Is it always going to be this invasive?” I finally asked, realizing how strange my lack of knowledge was about something so common to my people. A mystery that was kept a secret by those who had experienced it. “Explain it to me.”

Marc sighed. “You’ll get used to it, but in your case, that might not be such a good thing. In a few days, you will only notice extreme emotions. Fear, happiness, anger, sadness, or pain.”

“And physical distance?” I had noticed walking over here that I could feel the distance, like a lengthening cord, growing between us.

“Only if it changes dramatically. Or if you concentrate.” He smiled. “You’ll always be able to find her.”

“And she will be able to find me, I suppose?” I drained my glass. “And therein lies the crux of our problem.” I held up a hand to keep him from interrupting. “It is not that I know what she feels – it’s that she feels what I feel. She’s going to know when I’m being the deceitful, manipulative… troll that I am. If she betrays that information for an instant, it could be my undoing.”

Marc opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and nodded.

I could feel the pressure in the room building as my magic responded to my frustration, the air growing hotter by the second. “So, what you’re telling me is,” I shouted, my words directed more at myself than my cousin, “that on top of controlling every word I say, every relationship I have, every twitch, tick, and gesture that I make, that I must also now control how I feel?” I slammed my fists down on the table, the wood groaning beneath the impact.

“No, Tristan,” Marc said, ignoring my anger. “You’re the one who thinks you can control every aspect of your life. But you’re wrong. You can’t control this. You’ll have to find another way.”

“What other way?” I demanded.

“Win her over,” he said. “Make her your ally – you’re bonded, be what you are supposed to be to each other.”

The world spun around me and I grabbed the edge of the table for support, feeling my aunt’s prophesy driving me towards what seemed like an inevitable and unavoidable goal. “No,” I said under my breath. “I’ll do what it takes, but it won’t be that. The cost is far too high.”

CHAPTER 9

CéCILE

If Zoé and Élise were surprised to find me locked in a closet, they didn’t say so. My hands in theirs, they led me to an adjoining room, and I immediately fixated on the large four-poster bed dominating the space. Under other circumstances, its thick blankets and mounds of pillows might have been inviting. Tonight they held all the appeal of a torturer’s rack.

The maids removed my gown and jewels, and at my request, clasped my mother’s necklace back around my neck. They proceeded to dress me in a white lace nightgown and a thick velvet wrap. “We’ll bring your breakfast in the morning,” Élise said, then motioned for her sister to leave. Their troll-lights followed along behind them, the room already growing dim.

“Wait,” I called out. “I have no light.”

Zoé hurried back over to me. “Our mother had this problem when she was alive,” she said. “I remember my father leaving lights about our home for her.”

“Your father,” I asked tentatively, “did he care for your mother?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course he did, my lady. Very much so. They were not bonded, though. It was forbidden.” Her gaze flickered down to the silver marks on my hand. “Perhaps that will change now.”