Hidden Huntress

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “I was building it.” The words were hoarse, and he swallowed audibly. “The structure that I designed to replace the magic tree, I was building it. With the half-bloods’ help, and my father’s… well, not his blessing, but his permission.”

  A million questions sprang to mind, but I bit my tongue.

  “I can explain later how I got that permission, but suffice it to say, it was gained by my beating him at his own game. The first time ever, I think.” A smile flashed onto his face, then faded just as quickly. “Everything’s a mess in Trollus. It’s worse than when you left. I made a mistake that nearly caused Marc to lose his mind. The twins are relegated to the mines. The half-bloods can lie. Angoulême has possession of my brother’s name. Lessa has stolen Anaïs’s life.” He shook his head once. “My own mother even tried to kill me.”

  I heard everything he said, but it was almost too much for me to take in. I’d suspected that much had happened in Trollus, but hearing the names of those I cared about as those who had been harmed, and the names of our enemies as those who were triumphing? My stomach twisted, and I clenched my teeth together to keep quiet.

  “But despite everything existing in a miserable mess, I was finally starting to see how all the pieces fit together.” His eyes were fixed on me, but it wasn’t me he was seeing. “I was starting to see how his plan fit together, what his motivations were. The half-bloods supported me, the guilds were rallying to our cause, and even some of the aristocracy were openly siding with me. My structure was rising higher and higher, and my people were finally beginning to work together in a way I always dreamed they would. I was so very close…”

  He blinked, and his eyes focused on mine. “And then you called my name, and I left everything that I’d gained behind.”

  I recoiled back against the table. “I’m sorry,” I choked out. “All I knew was that you were sick, and breaking you free was the only way I could think to help you.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He lifted a hand as though to touch me, then let it fall back to his side. “This is what I’m trying to explain, Cécile. That I’m angry, but not at you.”

  I let my gaze drop to his chest. “I ruined your plans.”

  “No. It wasn’t a choice between me answering your call or staying to finish my work in Trollus. It was the choice between answering your call or both of us dying.” A warm filament of magic caught under my chin, lifting my face up. “The only solution was an impossible one, and yet here we stand. Alive.”

  There were countless questions I should have asked, with answers that were important for me to hear and know, but I couldn’t seem to remember any of them. So instead I asked, “Is it how you imagined it would be?”

  His eyes flickered shut. “There was a time I thought often about what the world outside of Trollus was like; so much so, that I almost convinced myself that I knew. But the reality…” He broke off. “It is vast.”

  I knew to him it must be true, but in that moment, I felt the exact opposite. It was as though the world had shrunk down to the size of the front entrance of my home, and that nothing else existed outside the two of us.

  “And in truth,” he continued, “since I lost you, the only thing I’ve thought of was what I’d do if I had another chance to be with you again.” He inhaled, and held the breath, and I clung to the moment with greedy anticipation. “But I never dreamed it would be this hard. That it would hurt to hold you.” He held up one arm, then let it fall limply by his side. “That I wouldn’t be able to feel your skin against my fingertips.”

  He broke off abruptly, and I instinctively knew that it had cost him to admit the weakness. I wanted to tell him that the iron rot would fade away, that he would get better, but I didn’t know if it would any more than he did.

  “You never lost me,” I whispered. “I always knew that we’d…” I broke off, because claiming that I’d had any certainty over the last months seemed like such a lie. “I hoped that…” My breath caught. “I…”

  “I know,” he said. And then he kissed me, and all my uncertainty about how he felt was chased away in the press of his lips against mine, the taste of his tongue, the heat of his skin as I wrapped my arms around his neck. Rising onto my tiptoes, I pulled myself against him, relishing his soft intake of breath as my body molded against his, the feel of him so familiar and yet exquisitely unknown. Desire burned low in my stomach – a want that I’d been too long deprived of – making me feel dizzy and breathless.

  “Cécile…” His breath tickled against my ear and the lamplight faded dark, then burst brilliantly.

  I was dizzy and breathless.

  “Cécile?”

  “I’m going to faint,” I mumbled, and then my knees buckled and everything went black.

  Thirty-Six

  Tristan

  Had she always been this tiny? I carried Cécile upstairs, finding a bedroom that was all lavender and lace, which managed to be both tidy and disorderly, and knew it was hers. Laying her on the bed, I removed her sodden boots and stockings, but I paused over her dress. It was damp and reeked of smoke, but I hesitated about undressing her while she was unconscious. I’d seen her in less, it was true, but I wasn’t sure she’d appreciate its removal. So I left it on, tucking her under the thick blankets and arranging her tangled hair so that it was no longer in her face.

  I did it all without touching her once. Because if I had, all I would have felt was pain.

  Removing the manacles had made me feel better, stronger, and no longer at death’s door. But the damage they’d inflicted remained, and it did not seem to be improving. Any attempt to move my hands sent stabbing shocks of agony shooting up my arms, but my fingers were numb and unfeeling. Would they get better, or was this how I was to spend the rest of my days? A lesser, broken version of myself? With most tasks, I could compensate with magic, but not with her. Never again being able to feel her skin beneath my fingertips or to hold her against me without pain was not a loss I’d easily accept.

  Dropping to my knees next to the bed, I let my light drift over so I could see Cécile’s face. The rounded cheeks I remembered had hollowed, her bones now sharp and visible through skin that no longer glowed with health. Golden lashes rested over dark bruises like marks beneath her eyes – and the fingernails on the hand that rested next to her chin were bitten down to the point where some had bled. Asleep and without the force of her personality in play, she seemed fragile. Faded.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, kissing her cheek gently before sitting back on my heels.

  I was free.

  Through magic and sheer force of will, Cécile had broken Anushka’s hold on me. And having been wholly unprepared for the moment, I was still coming to terms with that freedom. It was more overwhelming than I ever could have anticipated.

  Closing my eyes, I remembered running down the River Road, faster than the water surging next to me. As fast as I had ever run, as though speed might somehow tear me through the barrier that had bound my people for so long. Terror had lurked deep in my chest as I approached the invisible divide between our world and the outside, knowing it would hurt when I hit it, and knowing that I would do it again and again, with magic and fists until my heart stopped. In that moment, I’d never loved or hated Cécile more, because in one simple command, she’d found a way to end us.

  But the curse hadn’t stopped me.

  I’d felt it snatching and grabbing at me, trying to hold me back. But something stronger pulled me through, and then I was stumbling, falling onto the sand of the beach. Rolling onto my back, I’d looked up at the night sky, more vast, open, and unending than anything I could ever have imagined. I’d been rendered immobile as I stared up at the tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the sky, their number and brilliance growing as I watched.

  It was my father’s voice that had pulled me back to reality, the edge of panic in it. “Tristan?”

  I’d sat up, watching as an expression I’d never seen swept across his face. “Find her,” he s
houted, and suddenly I was running.

  He meant Anushka, I knew, but even if Cécile hadn’t called my name, it would have been her I’d gone to first. Like we were attached by a silken string, I was drawn in her direction, my passage down the dark road and into the city a blur I barely remembered. Even before I was close enough, I swore I could hear her singing, the crystal sound of her voice in my ears as I’d walked through the theatre and found her sitting on the stage, surrounded by flowers. There were moments in life that burned themselves into memory, forever vivid in the mind’s eye. For me, seeing her again on that stage was one of them.

  But it was not an untarnished moment.

  I did not doubt that she was telling the truth about how she’d come to have my name. I’d heard tell of those who’d dreamed themselves into Arcadia, and it was popular opinion that those who went to sleep and never woke were those whose minds drifted and were caught by winter fey.

  But never had I heard of it happening to a human. It made me believe that my uncle was meddling, which was troubling. I was in the debt of the Winter Queen, and knowing that Cécile had incurred a debt to the Summer King made me wonder if this was some game in the endless war between the two kingdoms. What mischief they might bring to this world if they were free to walk here once more. There were fell and dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows of my ancestors’ homeland, and I wasn’t sure we’d be able to control them as we once had. We were not as strong as we once were.

  But believing the truth of Cécile’s story did not change the fact that she now had the power to control me. She had not uttered it since, and I did not believe she’d do so idly, but I’d heard it drift across her thoughts, each time it did, my mind going blank of anything other than the anticipation of her command. Her knowing it was what had allowed her to break me free, but there was a large part of me that would have gone eagerly back to my cage to regain the autonomy of my will. And to go back to my work.

  Sighing, I climbed to my feet, needing to move. The creature Cécile called Souris was sitting on the floor next to me, tongue lolling out between sharp incisors, surprisingly canny eyes fixed on me. She had said he was a dog, but I wasn’t entirely convinced of the verity of that claim. “Will you watch her for me?” I said to him.

  As though understanding my question, the animal made a soft yip and leapt up onto the bed. Pawing at the covers, he rotated in a circle three times before settling down behind her knees. “I’ll be back,” I said.

  The rooms next to Cécile’s were devoid of anything other than furniture, but at the end of the hallway, I found the master chambers belonging to her mother.

  Genevieve de Troyes’ room was very much a boudoir, decorated with ornate furniture, plush burgundy fabrics, and artful clutter. The walls were covered in paintings of women in repose, many of them work I recognized as having originated in Trollus, and all of it expensive. Trinkets of glass and porcelain cluttered the tabletops, and a stack of gilt embossed books sat next to a chair by the fireplace.

  I knew well enough how little an opera singer – even a star – was paid, and it came nowhere near close to enough to pay for all this opulence. Her benefactor was a marquis well known to be a patron of the arts, and he must be generous indeed to endow her with all this.

  Cécile had only rarely spoken of her mother, and I’d never been able to decide whether she loved the woman to the point of adoration, or hated her. Having never met Genevieve, my opinions were all based on hearsay, but what I’d heard, I hadn’t liked. Past and current behavior suggested she was at the least, selfish, and at the most, a narcissist. But that might all be a front, an image cultivated to fit the perceptions of how an opera star should behave. From what I knew, she’d been born into a family of modest means, her father dying at a young age, leaving her to be raised by her songstress mother.

  Yet Genevieve walked in circles far above her social status should allow, which suggested that there was more to her than what the gossipmongers whispered. I was intensely curious about her, doubly so given Cécile’s frantic plea that she needed saving earlier tonight.

  With fingers of magic, I began to rifle through cabinets and drawers, making certain I left everything as it had been. I found little of interest other than stacks of love letters from would-be suitors, and pages of badly written poetry signed by someone with the initial J. Her closets were full to the brim with expensive clothes, shoes, and all the accoutrements a wealthy woman was likely to own, the whole of it dominated by a spicy perfume that tickled at my nose.

  The drawer in the bedside table I opened, immediately closed, then opened again, my curiosity stronger than my moral fiber as I assessed the collection of silken cords, feathers, and bits of lace. Interesting.

  It was only as I was about to close the drawer again that I noticed something was off about the depth of the space. A quick inspection showed me how to pop the false bottom up, revealing a stack of age-darkened letters hidden beneath. A clever place to hide something from high-minded servants.

  Turning my attention back to the letters, I skimmed through them. They were from Cécile’s father to her mother, all written in the five-year period following their separation, and each and every one of them pleading with her to come join her family. Questions as to why she changed her mind about accompanying him. Words begging her to come to Goshawk’s Hollow, describing how much he and their children missed her. Desperate sentences explaining that he would sell the farm and bring the children back to Trianon, if only she would answer his letters.

  In the last year, they decreased in frequency, but the plea never changed – right up to the point they stopped. Was that when she finally answered him, I wondered? Was that when she said no? Or, after five years of pleading, had he finally realized it was hopeless? And what did it mean that she had kept these letters all these long years? Were they trophies like the love letters I’d found, or deep down, did Genevieve really care?

  I thought about taking the letters to show to Cécile, but something stopped me. How could seeing written evidence of her father’s unanswered pleas to her mother do anything but hurt her? She had enough to deal with without me digging up old wounds, so I replaced them in their hiding spot.

  Downstairs, I wandered through the great room, the parlor, the kitchen, and even poked my head in the cellar before stepping inside the small, windowless study I found under the stairs. Expanding my ball of light, I started going through the contents of the desk, sorting through uninteresting correspondence, invitations to parties, sheaves of opera music, and stacks of bills, all of which she seemed to pay on time.

  Then my eyes lighted on a small safe bolted to the floor in the corner. It was made of solid steel with a modern-looking combination bolt. I was loath to put my ear against the toxic metal, but there was nothing else for it if I wanted to get inside. Ignoring the itching burn, I listened for the sounds of the tumblers falling as I slowly rotated the dial, and within moments, I had it open. I’d expected to find jewelry, but instead my eyes landed on stacks of ledgers. I began flipping through them, my jaw all but falling open at what I found.

  Genevieve de Troyes was a wealthy woman in her own right.

  I read through the pages detailing balances of her accounts, investments, and property holdings. She owned no less than sixty percent of the Trianon Opera House, and parts of several of the smaller houses in the city. All of it was held through a company of which she was the sole owner, the fact of which seemed to be hidden by layers of lawyers and paperwork. Nearly all of it she inherited from her mother – Cécile’s grandmother – who had owned it all as far back as the records went. Genevieve was rich, even by my standards, yet she pretended to be entirely dependent on the Marquis for money. Which begged the question of why?

  When Cécile first came to Trollus, I’d had her mother thoroughly investigated by those in my employ, and none of them had turned up this information. Which meant it was an extremely well-guarded secret. So well guarded, in fact, that her own daughter didn
’t even know. Locking the safe, I retreated back up the stairs to check on Cécile.

  She hadn’t so much as stirred. The room was warm from the glowing coals of the fireplace, so I gingerly removed my coat, feeling the bump of something heavy in my pocket as I did so. The book. I’d forgotten about it.

  Extracting the small volume, I set it on Cécile’s desk and settled on the chair. It had been beneath Catherine’s body when I’d lifted her up, the only thing that had kept it from burning. At the time, I’d only paid enough attention to it to determine it wasn’t Anushka’s grimoire before shoving it in my pocket, but now, I decided to take a closer look.

  Inside the front cover was a piece of parchment that had been folded many times over. I recognized Cécile’s looping handwriting, my eyes taking in a list of names and dates. The most recent was that of Genevieve’s mother, but none of the others were familiar. There was also a folded map of Trianon. The fire couldn’t have touched it, but there were tiny burn marks all over the map. None of it made any sense to me, but it must have been important for Catherine to steal it away from Cécile.

  The book itself was full of spells. I read quickly, grimacing at the dark and bloody nature of the magic, until I discovered a spell intended to find a missing person. A spell requiring a map.

  My father’s minion had said that Cécile was performing blood magic and I hadn’t wanted to believe it. But what I was looking at was undeniable proof that he’d been telling the truth. Picking the map up, I counted the marks. “How many times did you perform this spell, Cécile?” I asked, having felt her wake.

  She hesitated. “Once. All the marks came from the same casting.” Climbing slowly out of bed, she walked behind a dressing screen, emerging moments later in a green velvet wrap.

  “Who are these women?” I asked, watching her walk toward me, flashes of bare leg showing with each step. “What does your grandmother have to do with Anushka?”