Though our connection was muted by distance, Cécile’s mind had practically sung with tension since the moment she’d awoken. It was the feeling of someone crossing a precariously narrow bridge: unwavering focus mixed with a hint of fear, and above all, the incredible need to reach the other side. The sensation was not unfamiliar—it was much like what I, or any troll, felt after making a promise. But it felt utterly alien coming from her, as did the aggressive impatience that flared within her with increasing frequency. She seemed… changed.
The arched entrance to the Angoulême manor appeared as I rounded the corner. There were two women standing guard, and I retreated back down the street before they could see me, leaning against a wall to wait. Anaïs would have to pass by this way eventually.
The true power of a promise was not something humans gave entirely enough thought to. Those who knew of us seemed to consider the binding nature of our word a weakness only partially tempered by our ability to twist speech to suit our purposes.
What they did not understand, at least not until it was far too late, was that there was a certain reciprocity to the magic. If a human made a promise to a troll, the troll was quite capable of binding the human to her word, should he feel inclined. If the troll was willing enough to make the effort, and the promise impossible enough to fulfill, the human could be driven to the point where she would not sleep or eat—to the point where her mind cracked or her heart stopped beating over the stress of her continued failure. And I had no doubt my father was willing to make the effort in order to reach his goal.
I considered how he would use the leverage he had gained over my human wife. He would not drive her so hard as to kill her, not yet, anyway. He was patient—he’d keep pressure on her for months, slowly stripping away her mind until all that would be left was a shell with one purpose: to break the curse. Even if she survived it, she would no longer be the Cécile I knew and loved. I had to keep that from happening, but the only sure way to stop it was to kill my father, and that solution was fraught with more complications than I cared to count. Which was half the reason I was standing here in the shadows.
The other half was something else entirely.
I waited a long time until I was almost sure I’d missed her, when suddenly a familiar form came around the bend and started up the set of stairs I lurked next to. “Anaïs,” I breathed. She hadn’t noticed me, so I watched her walk, shoulders back and head high, like the princess she had almost been. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But it was a loveliness that came from flawlessness, every feature perfect in a way that made her seem almost created by design. It was the beauty of the fey. A face echoing all those who had come before, much as was my own.
Anaïs froze mid-step, eyes scanning the shadows until they latched on to me. Lowering her foot, she stared, face expressionless.
Until recently, I’d barely gone a day without spending time in her presence. With the exception of Marc, she was my oldest and closest friend. And without a doubt, she was my most loyal accomplice. Her history was my history, our lives interwoven as only those who were childhood friends could be. I knew everything about her, all her stories and secrets, and she knew me equally as well.
As our eyes locked, I remembered what I had told Cécile before the sluag attack—that Anaïs and I had never been more than friends. Technically, that was true. But it was also a lie. Anaïs was the first girl I’d lusted after, the first I’d ever kissed, the first of many things. But I’d never loved her, not like that.
Almost as though she could sense my thoughts, Anaïs bolted up the last few steps and started down the street toward her home.
“Anaïs,” I called, hurrying after her. “Anaïs, wait!”
She ignored me, and in another few steps, she would be in sight of the guards at the gate.
“Anaïs, please.” I broke into a run. “I need to talk to you.”
She slid to a stop and rounded on me. “I suppose that’s the key word, isn’t it? Need? Did you ever talk to me because you wanted to?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she raised a hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Tristan. I don’t want to hear you. I don’t ever want to see your face again. I’m tired of you using me.”
“Anaïs.” I closed the distance between us, my pleasure at seeing her alive tempered by the fury in her eyes. She had never looked at me like that before. “We’ve been friends our whole lives; how can you say these things?”
“Friends?” she scoffed. “Friend is just a label you give your favorite tools. I see that now. You only pretended to care so we’d assist with your plans.”
“You know that isn’t true.” I searched her face, looking for a trace of something that wasn’t anger. “I care about you. I…”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes, but I could see her hands were clenching her skirts. “The only person you care about, the only person you love, is her. And sometimes I wonder if that isn’t just out of some sense of self-preservation on your part.” She laughed wildly, and it sounded strange and off-key in my ears. Not a laugh I’d heard before. “Except that can’t be right,” she said, her shoulders shaking. “Because you loathe yourself, don’t you? You despise your very nature.” The corner of her mouth turned up. “Well, now you are in good company, because with the exception of that imbecile, Marc, there isn’t a soul in Trollus who does not hate you.”
She was the last person I’d ever expected to turn on me. Had I not known her as well as I thought? Or was what I’d done worse than I believed? “If I don’t care about you, then why was I so happy to learn you had survived? Why am I here now?”
“I really don’t know, Tristan.” Her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks. I hadn’t seen her cry like this since Pénélope died—she always said she hated public displays of emotion. “You left me there to die. Left me there even though you knew…” Her voice cracked, and she wiped the dampness from her face.
“Even though I knew what?” I asked, though the answer had already oozed up from the depths of my subconscious.
She swallowed hard before answering. “Even though you knew I could be saved. You knew that witches could heal trolls from iron wounds, because Cécile healed you.” She sniffed, squeezing her eyes shut. “Your father had a witch in Trollus, but you didn’t stop to think of me. You just took her and left.” Her eyes snapped back open. “After everything I’d done for you, you left me to die. If not for your father, I would be rotting in a tomb. He only stabbed me out of desperation—he never had any intention of harming me.”
The moment replayed through my mind. She was right—I hadn’t even stopped to consider that her life could be saved. My one and only concern had been getting Cécile safely away from Trollus.
“I didn’t know where he was keeping the witch,” I said. “If I had known…”
“If you had known, you still would have chosen Cécile over me.”
Denying it was impossible.
“I’m sorry,” I said, searching her face for some sign that this was an act. A strategy she’d employed while I was in prison to protect herself from punishment. But there was nothing. “I have no right to even ask for your forgiveness.”