“I don’t know what to do.”
I lifted my head. Tristan had turned from the window to face me, eyes filled with a helplessness I’d never seen before. This young man who was undeniably brilliant. Who’d been raised on plots and strategies and schemes; who’d faced down the most dire of predicaments without faltering, was looking to me for an answer.
I ran my tongue over my lips, but it was very nearly as dry as they were. “That necklace matters to Anushka. We need to get it back.”
That had been hours ago. We’d dispatched Chris with a pocketful of gold to track down the stockman and buy back the necklace. We’d tasked Sabine with discovering what she could about the fallout from Esmeralda’s death; most importantly, whether Aiden or my brother had pointed a finger at Tristan. Neither had yet returned, and after discussing every possible contingency, we’d both drifted into our own thoughts.
Tristan sighed and shifted, and I felt his fingers interlock with mine. Glancing down, I saw he’d pressed his face against my stomach, his eyes closed and lashes black against his fair skin. My heart softened, warmth chasing away the tension and ceaseless pressure of the King’s compulsion. I smoothed the disarray of his hair and traced a finger along the curve of his ear, my thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone.
He relaxed, and a smile curved my lips as I thought of this hard-won gift of his trust. That he’d finally stopped trying to hide his fears and weaknesses, and was willingly turning to me for comfort was worth more to me than all the gold in Trollus.
“I love you,” I mouthed silently, and his fingers tightened around mine as though he had heard. It made me think of last night. The way it had felt. The intensity of the moment. But then an unwanted thought intruded. “Anushka was Alexis’ mistress,” I said, half to myself. “Do you know for how long?”
“Two years. Possibly three. It’s not something he would have cared to have documented. Nor would his wife.”
I frowned. “What was her name?”
“Lamia.” Tristan cleared his throat. “Other than my great-grandmother who ruled Trollus for almost forty years, Lamia is said to have been the most powerful queen in our history.”
“Did not help her much,” I muttered.
He hesitated before answering. “She may not have cared. Their match would have been arranged by the crown for the purpose of breeding power into the line, and she would have been raised to be… pragmatic.”
I considered his words, and they sounded hollow. Even if the troll queen had not cared a whit for her husband, she was still bonded to him. Anushka knew how to mute the connection, but it would have required her slipping the other woman a potion every time she was with Alexis. More likely, the Queen had known about the affair and had lived with those feelings in her head over and over again. It would have been maddening.
“Did she survive his murder?”
“Yes. But when it became clear there was no escape from Anushka’s curse, she went mad. Her son had to…” He broke off. “He had no choice. Power and madness are a poor mix.”
I met his eye, and neither of us needed to say anything to know he referred to his own brother as much as the long-dead queen.
A knock sounded at the door. “It’s me,” Sabine’s muffled voice called through. “Let me in.”
Once inside, she pulled back her hood, snow falling to dust the floor. “I swear this is the coldest winter I’ve ever known,” she muttered, pulling off her cloak and draping it over a chair. “Build up the fire, would you?”
The fireplace burst bright with pale troll-fire as Tristan followed Sabine into the sitting room, his expression intent. “Well?”
“There’s nothing,” she said, sitting on the chair across from me. “No talk of a murder, much less one where the individual died in an … unusual fashion. Not even a whisper.” Pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the table, she took a mouthful and grimaced and held out the cup to Tristan. “It’s cold.”
He shot her a black look, but a second later, the cup was steaming.
“I went to the opera house to see if by some chance no one had found the body, but it was gone. There was still some blood under the snow, but it looked like someone had put in a bit of effort to make it appear as though nothing had happened, albeit a sloppy one.”
Tristan sat down heavily next to me. “Your father’s doing?” I asked.
He gave a slow shake of his head. “If it was his doing, it wouldn’t have been sloppy.”
“Then who?”
“I’ve no notion.”
Sabine leaned back in her chair. “I stopped by your mother’s home. She hasn’t returned yet, but she sent word that she’ll be back in Trianon tomorrow morning. Apparently Julian’s gone to join her.”
I grimaced. “It makes me nervous having her running around the countryside, given the danger we know she’s in.”
The door abruptly flung open, and Chris flew in. “I found him!”
“The necklace? Did he have it?” Tristan demanded.
“No, but…”
Tristan swore and stormed over to the window to rest his forehead against the cool glass.
“But,” Chris continued. “You won’t believe who he sold it to. He said a woman came at dawn with a purse full of gold asking about it. Said it was of sentimental value and that the girl who sold it was a fool.”
I winced, because that much was true. “Did he recognize her? Did he describe her?”
“He said she was wearing a hood that obscured most of her face.”
The temperature of the room burned hot, and Sabine sat up straight in her chair, eying Tristan with unease.
“I should have gone myself,” he growled at the window. “I might have caught her and all this would be done.”
“Tristan, I missed her by a good hour,” Chris said. “It would have made no difference if you’d gone. But listen to this: the stockman said she arrived and left in a carriage marked in the Regent’s colors.”
I sat up straight and Tristan swung around to face us.
“There’s more,” Chris said. “The man at the front desk gave me this when I came back in.” Walking swiftly around the chairs, he went to Tristan and handed him an envelope. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
Tristan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the card. “It’s an invitation to Lady Marie du Chastelier’s Longest Night ball.”
I blinked. “That’s where my masque is to be performed. It’s the most exclusive event of the year,” I added, getting to my feet. “The invitations to this went out weeks ago, and only the upper crust of Trianon nobility will be there. Not bourgeoisie boys riding high on their fathers’ wealth.”
“It’s not addressed to a bourgeoisie boy riding high on his father’s wealth,” Tristan said quietly, handing me the invitation.
My heart accelerated as I took in the words, His Royal Highness, Prince Tristan de Montigny is cordially invited to… “It’s a trap.”
“Undoubtedly,” Tristan replied. “And she’s confident enough that she’s not even trying to hide it.”