Nodding, she put the necklace in her pocket and began fastening my new jewelry. Once these were in place, she turned me to face the full-length mirror in the corner. In the eerie glow, I scarcely recognized myself: I appeared older and, if one ignored my swollen injuries, pretty.
“Are you ready, Mademoiselle de Troyes?”
If a thousand years came and went, I still wouldn’t be ready, but I gave a weak nod.
“Be brave,” Marc said, the half of his face I could see filled with sympathy. “Just do as His Majesty requests and this will all be over quickly.”
On Marc’s arm, I walked through the hallways of the palace. The only sound beyond the ever-present roar of falling water was the click of my heels and the rustle of my dress. He said nothing. I said nothing; although I was desperate to know what to expect. I contented myself with examining the artwork lining the hallways. No surface was left unadorned, walls and alcoves filled with sculptures so detailed I half expected them to spring to life, and paintings so vivid it was like looking out a window. Never in my life had I seen such a wealth of beauty, and it seemed such a shame that it was forever consigned to shadow.
As though sensing my thoughts, Marc’s light grew brighter. “I think we take the artistic talents of our people for granted sometimes,” he murmured.
He paused and pushed open a door. I quickly recognized the mirrored hall from earlier, when I’d been brought to meet the King. Light flew up to the ceiling, illuminating the paintings I had caught but a glimpse of earlier. “The life’s work of one of my ancestors, Charlotte Le Brun,” he said.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, forgetting my apprehension for a moment. Winged sprites flitted among flowers, serpents soared across skies, and men and women with jewel-like eyes and hair in every color of the rainbow stared down from the ceiling.
The sound of a bell being rung echoed through the hallways. “The release of curfew,” Marc explained, but his attention wasn’t on me. He stood frozen, head cocked slightly as though listening for something. All I could hear was the sound of my heart pounding louder and louder. It was a long moment before he relaxed.
“Trollus isn’t all bad,” he said, pulling me out into the hallway. I wasn’t certain whether he was trying to convince me or himself.
Despite the release of curfew, we met no one on our way. The palace seemed to be devoid of life until we reached the vaulted front entrance. The King and Queen stood waiting, surrounded by a handful of grey-clad, black- and white-sashed attendants. Tristan sat on a bench near them, head in his hands. At the sound of my heels, he leapt abruptly to his feet, but I found I could not meet his gaze. Instead I approached his parents and dropped into a deep curtsey.
“Your Majesties.” Turning in Tristan’s direction, but keeping my eyes lowered, I added, “Your Highness.”
“Let me see her!”
I had forgotten about the Duchesse.
The Queen dutifully turned about, and her sapphire-bedecked sister peered at me, her orb of troll-light dancing so close that my eyes watered from the brightness. “See, Thibault, I told you she would clean up quite nicely.”
“Hmmm,” the King said, looking over me much as my father did a cow at auction. “Smells better, at least.” He flapped his hand in the Queen’s direction. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to wait another month for a moon to find out if this will work.” With the Queen at his side, the King swiftly departed through the enormous front entry, servants fluttering ahead of them. Marc had disappeared while I had been making my courtesies, and now only Tristan and I stood in the cold entrance. He watched me with those inhuman eyes, expression bland, perhaps even a bit bored.
“You look exceptionally… colorful.”
My cheeks and chest flushed a blotchy red. “I didn’t choose the dress, my lord,” I replied stiffly.
“I wasn’t talking about the dress. I’ve only seen human hair that color in paintings, and I was certain the artists were being fanciful. It’s more noticeable now that you’ve cleaned up…” He paused, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “And it’s somewhat brighter in here. See the lamps?” He broke off. “Of course you see them. I just meant… Your hair is very red.”
Mortified, my skin flared so hot I thought it might burn clear off my bones. I fought the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on the gown and muttered, “I didn’t get to choose the color of my hair, either.”
He opened his mouth, no doubt to add further insult to injury, but I shot him a dark look and he wisely shut it again.
A young troll stepped through the entrance. “Your Highness.” He held out a tray with two crystal glasses filled with a glowing blue liquid. Tristan examined them. “Do you suppose it would be inappropriate,” he asked the servant, “for me to top them up a bit with some whiskey?”
The servant stared at him, expression horrified, tray trembling in his hand. “I suppose you’re right,” Tristan said glumly, although the man hadn’t spoken a word. He took the two glasses and handed me one of them. “Cheers!”
I took it and eyed the contents with suspicion. “What is it? Not some sort of poison, I hope?”
“I call it Liquid Shackles. It has another name, but I prefer to use my own inventions. As to its nature, well…” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it isn’t harmful, but it certainly won’t kill you. At least it shouldn’t – we’ve never had a human drink any before.”