“How did he punish you for helping me?” I asked quietly.
Marc took a long time to respond. “I was fined.”
There was something about his tone that told me there was more to it than a fine, but Marc was not one you pressed.
Vincent stopped abruptly and I nearly collided with him. Turning round, he fixed me with a stare. “They came to his house and took all of Pénélope’s things away. All her art. All his portraits of her. Everything.”
My father knew everyone’s weaknesses. And Pénélope was Marc’s. No one knew that better than me.
We’d all known her life would be a short one. I’d been furious when he’d bonded to her, no part of me understanding why he’d tied himself to someone who lived at death’s door. I’d thought it was a selfish act on both their parts, and while I’d said nothing to Marc, Pénélope hadn’t been so fortunate. It had been the last conversation we’d had.
She hadn’t died swiftly, but rather after days of ceaseless bleeding that had diminished her, drained her, until not even her fey nature could delay the inevitable any longer, and her light had gone out. I’d lurked in the corner, and even now, I could hear the loud thud of my heart in my ears, beating with dreadful anticipation as I’d planned how to keep my cousin alive after she died.
I’d kept him bound for what seemed an eternity, each day hoping that he’d come to his senses, but it never happened. So I forced him to promise that he’d live. When Marc had told Cécile about that promise, he’d made it sound as though I’d done some grand thing. In reality, it was one of the worst decisions of my life. That he’d trusted me long ago with his true name was the only reason I’d been able to salvage the situation, because using it gave me not only the power to control what he did, it allowed me to control what he thought. What he felt. What he remembered…
“I…” I started to say, but Vincent was already hurrying down the tunnel. Marc had his head lowered, face hidden by his hood.
“I’ll get it all back,” I blurted out. My father had stolen everything Marc had left of the girl he loved, and my cousin hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t complained once. And I hadn’t asked.
“It doesn’t matter, Tristan,” he said. “They’re just things. They aren’t her.”
“It does matter,” I argued. “It’s because of me that he took them, so I’ll get them back.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” I was angry now. “It is in no way fine that I never asked what he did to you. I didn’t even think…” I ground my teeth together. “I’ve been selfish. Lately. Always, maybe. That needs to change.”
“Then change,” he said, walking faster to catch up with Vincent. “But don’t concern yourself about Pénélope’s things. There are other matters more pressing.”
The conversation was over. Marc did not like to talk about Pénélope. Even when she’d been alive, he’d been close-lipped about her, as though what was between them was private and precious, not to be shared. The only person I’d ever seen him willingly discuss her with had been Cécile. She had a way of getting people to talk that I didn’t. She was empathetic. I was… judgmental.
Breaking into a trot, I hurried to catch up with my friends.
It didn’t take as long to reach Tips and his gang as I thought it would. From the way Cécile had described it to me, they worked a couple of hours’ walk from the lifts, but no more than a half hour had passed when we reached them.
Tips must have felt our power, because he was watching our direction rather than where his crew was working.
“Vincent,” he said with a nod. Vincent didn’t reply, only went over to where the half-bloods were rooting around in piles of blasted rock.
“My Lord Comte.” Tips bowed low to Marc. Then he turned to me. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
His fist flew forward, catching me hard in the cheek. I staggered back, more out of surprise than pain. With one hand, I touched my face and my fingers came away bloody. Tips’s fingers glinted with metal, and for a swift, angry moment, I thought he wore iron. Then I felt the itch of my flesh healing and realized it was only silver.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” he said, a cocky grin smeared across his face.
“Satisfied?” I demanded, my voice colder than I intended. You deserved that and more.
“Not even close.”
We glared at each other, seemingly at an impasse before we even started.
“This passage is supposed to be closed,” Marc said, breaking the standoff. “It’s dangerous.”
Tips’s eyes flicked his direction. “Was,” he corrected. “Lord Vincent’s got the knack for shoring things up.”
I didn’t really hear the last bit. All that registered in my head was that the rock overhead was unstable. Sweat trickling down my cheek, I searched the ceiling above us for cracks, my magic manifesting, ready to form a shield in an instant. Whatever Tips and Marc were arguing about went unheard, my ears peeled for the sound of moving rock.
“Bloody stones, what do you think you’re doing!” Tips’s voice caught my attention.
“Is this passage stable?” I demanded, hating the way my voice sounded.
“Stable enough.” Tips cocked his head, and then he started laughing. “You’re scared. You, the most powerful troll alive, scared to be in the mines.”
“I’m not…” I broke off with a scowl. “I don’t like it down here.”
“Poor pretty prince.” He rubbed the corner of his eye like he was wiping away a tear. “You realize that makes no sense. You’ve lived your whole life under a mountain of rock. I’ve seen you go into the labyrinth, which is a far worse place than here, and come out looking like you’ve just been for tea with your mother. It’s ridiculous for you to be afraid.”
“It’s actually perfectly logical,” I retorted, hating everything that was coming out of his mouth.
“A rock on the head is a rock on the head.” There was laughter in his voice, and he leaned on his crutch, looking at me like I was the most amusing thing he’d seen all year.
“I can hold up the rocks in the labyrinth and those above the city,” I snarled at him. “But this is too much. Even for me.”
Everyone and everything went silent. Swearing, I swung a fist into the wall and instantly regretted it when dust rained down on my head and pain lanced through my arm. Why had Marc said anything about the passage being unstable? He had to have known it would throw me off, make me say things I’d regret.
“Well, I suppose that does make a bit of sense.” Tips’s voice broke the silence.
I only scowled, refusing to say anything that would implicate me further.
“Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Tips continued. “You have to be in control of everyone around you, so it makes sense that you’d want control of everything.”
Was that so wrong? It was. I knew it was. I heard the thud of Tips’s wooden leg retreating back toward his crew and knew I needed to say something. Why had I come down here? Because I didn’t want to squander the only good that had come from the choices that I’d made? Or was it to make amends for those choices? Both, I decided. It’s both. “Wait.”